Calls Me Home
by XxWilson'sGirlxX
Summary: 'Nine minutes was all it had taken to ruin his life forever...' A fic that tests House and Wilson's relationship to the limit when they must deal with the psychologically traumatic aftermath of Wilson being raped. Contains sick!Wilson, sweet!House and a lot of angst. Rated 'T' generally but may be considered 'M' very occasionally.
1. Nine Minutes

_'It's funny how, the walk of life..._

_Can take you down without a fight.'_

__{Shannon LaBrie: Calls Me Home}

Letting himself into his and House's Condo, flicking on the light switch and dumping the newly bought Chinese takeout onto the less than hygienic kitchen worktop, Wilson could only stare tiredly at the state his slovenly friend had left the kitchen in, the place littered with dirty dishes and mugs from that morning that shone in all their filthy, practically _molding,_ glory beneath the glare of the lights.

Well, maybe that was a tiny exaggeration…

But it _was_ disgusting.

And Wilson really, _really_ wasn't in the mood for it.

Oh, before his car had broken down in a cloud of chugging smoke eight blocks away, forcing him to abandon his beloved Volvo until morning, he might have been. Before he'd started walking, coat wrapped tightly around him against the cold, getting pissed wet through in the downpour when still at least six blocks away from their apartment, he would have resignedly got on with it. Hell, before he'd had to wait in a stuffy, sweaty, takeout queue for nearly _forty-five minutes,_ feeling uncomfortably damp from the drying, grease tinged heat… well,a warm, dry, _calm_ James Wilson would have stoically filled the sink with hot, soapy water and spent the next God knows how long scrubbing away until the kitchen that had fallen victim to one Gregory House and his breakfast was fit yet again for him and the stupid twerp to safely survive in once more.

As it was all Wilson really wanted, right now, was a hot cup of coffee, and a towel to dry his hair.

Was that really too much ask?

The simple answer to that silly question was a resounding _'yes'_, any mugs he'd washed recently having either gone AWOL (and were probably now rotting away in House's hovel of a bedroom) or were now residing once more in a sink that he was pretty sure had spawned hundreds, if not thousands, of bacterial colonies over the past few months thanks to his quite permanent lodger.

'Great,' muttered Wilson, his frustration boiling over as he haphazardly plucked any and all dishes and mugs from the work tops to lob them into the sink with an almighty crash, not caring if any broke as they hurtled in, 'Just fucking _great_.'

It didn't get any better when, less than a minute later and elbow deep in grime, he felt the inevitable sharp shock of broken glass slicing his hand, the swift extraction of his hand from the bubbles revealing a remarkably small cut by his thumb that steadily pumped an inordinate amount of scarlet blood down his forearm.

Wilson's somewhat surprised gaze lingered on his newly acquired tiny injury for a few seconds before he calmly took himself off to the bathroom, returning to the living room a minute or so later to lower himself onto the couch, a towel now wrapped around his hand and biting his lip hard against the sudden lump in his throat.

He sighed shakily, knowing quite well that the burn of tears behind his tired eyes had nothing to do with the practically self-inflicted cut on his hand, had nothing to do with the dishes, the queuing, the rain, the cold, his car, bloody _House_… it had nothing to do with any of them.

No, Wilson had been waiting for this all day, the past two days having seen him lose not one, but two of his brightest, youngest patients, their families distraught with grief as they'd wholeheartedly turned to him for help, for _anything_, desperate to take whatever support he could give them at what surely was one of, if not the most, horrific times of their lives. He could still hear six year old Sophie Tyler arguing with five year old Charlotte Adams in the playroom over _him_ of all people, their weak, thinning bodies wracked with the effects of chemotherapy but the pair of them still managing to put most grown women to shame as they'd indulged in a slanging match over whom Wilson belonged to.

'_He's my Doctor Wilson!'_

'_No, Sophie he's _mine_ – I've been here way longer!'_

'_He gave me crayons-'_

'_He gave me a teddy!'_

'_He hugged me!'_

'_He hugged me too – OW!'_

Wilson laughed softly to himself now, remembering how he'd chosen that particular point to quickly extract himself from his note-making at the Nurses' Station and enter the colorful room before all hell broke loose, dropping to his knees to catch both delighted girls in a tight hug, reminding them that he was there for _both_ of them, whereupon, after much debate and negotiation, they'd reluctantly agreed to share him.

Five minutes later they were the best of friends again.

Seven days later they were dead, taking the light from their families' worlds with them, Charlotte having passed away yesterday afternoon and Sophie this morning.

Wilson had done all he could for their parents, siblings and grandparents, hugging those who turned to him, offering guidance on what would happen next, talking to them about Sophie and Charlotte for as long as they'd needed to, reassuring all of them that they had nothing to feel guilty for in Sophie's or Charlotte's passing, that there was nothing more they could have done, that they'd all been there for Sophie and Charlotte when both girls had needed them most, that they'd all done their best.

Yet he knew, as he himself felt, that both of those families would never be at peace with their youngest family member being taken so cruelly from this world. No matter what anybody said, he could never understand or accept any reasoning for a child passing away when they'd barely even begun their lives... he knew that no matter what he said to those families, they would never understand or accept Sophie and Charlotte not being in this world anymore.

Sophie's family had left his office this morning, having been in there for nearly two hours. Less than five minutes after they'd gone, House had hopped over the balcony and barged in to take his usual seat on Wilson's couch, pretty sure that his best friend had to be torn up over his two favorite baldy kids dying. Wilson's heavy sigh as he'd dragged his grief-laden gaze up to House's had only confirmed it.

House spoke gruffly before Wilson could get a word in, an uncharacteristic air about the scruffy Diagnostician just not sitting quite right with Wilson as he'd tried to work out what it was that, for a split second, seemed to have House bordering on… compassion? Empathy? Surely not.

'Dinner's on me tonight.'

_Good God._

Wilson had stared at him dumbly for a few stunned seconds before pointedly averting his gaze to the window, craning his neck to catch a precious glimpse of something that House didn't quite turn around quick enough to see, the annoyance etched into every impatient feature on his face as he'd turned back to find Wilson still transfixed at what seemed to be precisely _nothing._

'Wilson-'

'D'you know,' interrupted Wilson, squinting hard now as he stared, mesmerized, into the distant blue sky, 'I could've sworn I just saw a pig flying – yes, you heard right my friend – a pig _flying _past my window-'

'Okay, okay – cut the crap. Do you want dinner or not? Although if you're just gonna sit their whining and whinging about dying rugrats while I'm _trying_ to get my fix of the L-Word you can take my offer and shove it where the sun don't shine.'

Wilson had had to smile at that one, knowing just how fortunate he was to not only witness, but actually _benefit_ from, a genuine act of kindness from a man who, to the world outside his office door, must at times appear to be nothing short of a psychopath.

Luckily, the 'psychopath's' best friend knew better.

'Fine – and I _don't _whine.'

'Wilson, you're pre-menstrual sweetums, it happens to most women,' replied House cheekily, already up and limping towards the door without a backwards glance, 'but I mean it – one _sniffle_ and I'm kicking you out on that sweet little ass you've got every Nurse in this place mentally dry humping.'

If he hadn't heard them before, then Wilson could most certainly hear them now as House stepped outside into the corridor – warning bells ringing steadily in his head, bells that were growing louder with every passing millisecond…

'House-'

'What's that Wilson?' called House, his face the picture of wide-eyed innocence as he shouted through the open door to the ever more apprehensive Oncologist, his voice echoing horribly down the corridor, 'I simply_ have_ to know that your sweet little ass belongs to one man and one man _only_?'

'_House!'_

'YOUR SWEET LITTLE ASS BELONGS TO _ME?_'

'HOUSE!'

Wilson, stupidly, as per usual, had reacted. Jumping quickly to his feet, he'd made to slam the office door shut on the crowing moron only to be met with the adoring gaze of his next patient – 76 year old Mrs Jenkins, recovering from a recent mastectomy due to breast cancer.

'Hello James, dear – have you two finally got it on then?'

She also appeared to have that innate ability that most elderly ladies had honed to perfection – the skill to simply say, without one iota of shame or subtlety, _exactly_ what she was thinking.

Wilson had blushed furiously, standing back to let her into his office and glaring down the corridor at a gleeful House, who had promptly blown him a flamboyant kiss before spotting a purposeful Cuddy marching down the corridor towards him and swiftly stepping sideways into his office to avoid her thunderous glare.

What good he'd thought that would do, Wilson didn't know, seeing as she'd simply followed him in there anyway.

Resigned to the background hum of Cuddy's yells already emanating nicely from the office next door, Wilson had simply sighed before turning back to his nosy, but undoubtedly sweet, patient perched in House's usual spec on his couch, who had been waiting expectantly for his verdict.

'I'm not gay,' Wilson had quickly informed her, 'and neither is the idiot next door. He's just had a bit too much, er… coffee. Stressful job and all that, he overdoes it sometimes, gets hopped up on caffeine like a kid with candy. I can only apologize.'

Thinking back now, as he unwrapped the towel from his hand to scrutinize the small cut on his hand, Wilson realized that Mrs Jenkins hadn't looked entirely convinced at either explanation.

Speaking of which, he wasn't entirely convinced that House would actually be coming home any time soon given that it was almost 10:00pm… he'd said earlier that he might be late given the absurdly complex nature of his patient's mystery diagnosis, but this was bordering on ridiculous now.

Not that Wilson was surprised – if House's team couldn't work it out then there had been many a time when House had stayed in work, barricading himself in his dark office until the early hours when the diagnosis that had been taunting him all along finally decided to jump forth and smack him in the face.

Usually because the patient in question had failed to tell the whole truth in the first place.

That wasn't going to change just because House's best friend come 'pre-menstrual _woman'_ needed a shoulder to cry on.

Which was the very reason why Wilson decided to have his dinner now before everything went stone cold – a dinner that House, apparently, owed him for.

Like that would ever happen.

His rummaging through the takeout cartons was interrupted almost immediately by the sharp rap of three solid knocks on the front door, eliciting a somewhat frustrated groan from Wilson as he accepted that he just wasn't destined to eat a warm Chinese tonight.

So much for the nice, relaxing evening spent in the company of his best friend after a hard day at work.

Wilson had barely even made it past the living room before three knocks rang again, loud and clear, through the apartment.

'Alright, I'm coming!' he called, rolling his eyes at the impatience of whoever stood on the other side, checking his watch as he went.

Whoever it was had a bloody cheek knocking this late – 10:02pm. He half hoped it would be that woman who'd moved in a couple of floors up, who, as House and he had simultaneously judged, was nothing short of _hot._

Although, House had pointed out quite rightly that her ass wasn't a patch on Cuddy's, comparing hot girl's backside to the Titanic and Cuddy's to the iceberg that dwarfed it.

Wilson was pretty sure there was a compliment in there somewhere.

In that split second prior to swinging the door open to reveal his visitor, Wilson's stomach lurched stupidly at the sudden certainty that it wouldn't be hot girl standing there on the other side, but two Cops - probably there to let him know the increasingly morbid reason for House's absence… it couldn't really be anyone else at this time could it?

A second later and even he had to admit that might be a tad melodramatic – if anything, it was probably just another neighbor storming up here to complain about his cane-using friend yet again.

As it was, he opened the door to catch only a fleeting glimpse of a pair of dreadful, cold grey eyes framed by a thick, black balaclava before he was grabbed roughly by the hair, his unsuspecting face simultaneously smashed down hard into the knee that the intruder drove upwards, hot blood gushing from Wilson's nose and mouth instantly as he was shoved backwards into his own Condo, stunned and barely registering that he'd bitten his tongue hard on impact when the sickly crimson liquid started to pool in his hands, shaking hands that were doing nothing as he instinctively tried to cover his face, his heart thundering in his ears with every fearful beat it took.

Wilson didn't even get a chance to look up before the forceful punch to his stomach seemed to knock the very air from him, blow after vicious blow raining down on him as he stumbled backwards to eventually fall heavily against the back of the sofa, gasping and curling into a ball in a vain effort to protect himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his head as he slid limply to the floor, praying to God, to _anyone,_ for this to be over, any attempt to cry out failing miserably in his winded state.

_House._

That was all Wilson could weakly think, numb now from the endless pummeling, his ashen cheek sticky with the warm blood and salty tears that had congealed onto the wooden floor beneath him, the iron scent overwhelming as it fuelled the swirling nausea.

_Please don't come home… not yet… I need you safe… stay in w-_

His mantra was forgotten in an instant as his aching brain registered in a fleeting, startling moment just where this attack was headed.

_No… God, please no…_

Somewhere through the haze, Wilson had come to faintly recognize the insistent tugging of his belt as it was roughly loosened, the pure, unadulterated horror that washed coldly through his battered body wiping all thoughts of House from his mind as he realized what was about to happen.

'No…' whispered Wilson hoarsely, barely able to move now as he feebly tried to pull himself away, the silver glint of the blade that seemed to appear from nowhere swiftly pressed, with well-practiced ease, just hard enough to his throat to draw a tiny trickle of blood, the icy terror that gripped Wilson's heart stealing any breath he'd thought he'd had as the weight of this utter _scum_ who dared to call himself a human being pressed down heavily on Wilson's back, trapping his arms underneath him, his usually buoyant voice now barely more than a weak stammer.

'No, don't… _p-please-'_

'Are you fucking _stupid?_' hissed the faceless mugger, flecks of still-warm saliva spraying a repulsed Wilson's cheek as the knife edge was pressed harder into his bared throat, the helpless Oncologist sobbing now as he still struggled desperately against the calloused hand that yanked unforgivingly at his trousers and boxers, forcing them down past his knees, the panic choking in its hold as it drowned him.

'No, no, you c-_can't_… please –_ no_, NO!'

His wracking sobs soon morphed into agonized screams as fiery pain billowed mercilessly through him, excruciating pain that seemed to rip him from the inside out over and over again, the suffocating hand that slammed into his face to cover his mouth muffling any tortured plea that a neighbor might have had some small, slim chance of hearing, the powerless tears that streamed down Wilson's bloodied cheeks seemingly never ending, his throat raw as he swallowed the waves of nausea amidst tortured cries that never made it past his lips.

Wilson had never been sure if he believed in God or not.

But in that one moment, as he closed his eyes to give in completely to the horror, Wilson wholeheartedly prayed that God would answer, just this once, and swiftly take him from this world.

_This couldn't be happening… not now, not in his own apartment – not to him._

He'd never, in all his life, known what it was to be so utterly ashamed that you truly hated yourself…

Now… well, now he did.

After what seemed a hellish lifetime later, Wilson could only cry weakly with barely conscious relief as he felt the sweaty, rancid form of his attacker suddenly scrambling back off of him, the cool air that rushed over his exposed body chilling his violently shivering form, the thud of strange footsteps pounding the wooden floor as his rapist fled the Condo soon fading into ominous silence.

Wilson could hardly bring himself to open his eyes, to come back to the nightmare that was his reality, but open them he did, the panic-ridden vision of his front door still swinging wide open fuelling him to scrabble frantically at the blood covered floor, his shaking hands finding the back of the couch as he tried and failed to pull himself upwards to his feet, so scared now that he could hardly breathe past the absolute fear of his attacker coming back again.

It took all of Wilson's strength to finally succeed in dragging himself off the floor, staggering towards the open door with a pained cry and falling exhaustedly against it to quickly slam it shut again. He managed only a couple of shuddering breaths before he vomited, his twisting stomach unwillingly heaving as he broke down, unable to catch his breath now and dizzy with fright, the smell of blood and sick and _him _sending his searing head spinning as he curled up on the cold floor, frozen to the core and sobbing so hard that he didn't think he could stop.

10:11pm.

That was the time his watch displayed, the clock face blurry through the traumatized tears that filled his once ever-optimistic chocolate eyes as he lifted a trembling hand to see it, eyes that now had self-loathing and, above all, pure terror swirling in their violated depths.

Nine minutes was all it had taken to ruin his life forever.

_Nine minutes._

That was the penultimate thought that flashed cruelly through James Wilson's mind before he felt the welcome depths of merciful darkness beginning to creep into the edges of consciousness, allowing his shattered gaze to drift slowly shut as he hung on to one last, final thought:

_You can come home now, Greg… please, please come home._


	2. You're In The Arms Of The Angel

Hi everyone, just to say a huge thank you for the lovely reviews!

They're really appreciated – hope you enjoy this chapter too :D xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>You are pulled from the wreckage, of your silent reverie.<em>

_You're in the arms of the angel…_

_May you find some comfort here.'_

{Sarah McLachlan: Angel}

10:11pm.

House sighed tiredly at the time his watch blinked back at him as he limped through the silent darkness of the empty clinic, frustrated beyond belief. Here he was, having missed his and Wilson's Chinese for a patient who had recently been evicted from her home and yet failed, quite spectacularly, to tell him or his team that she was agoraphobic.

Brilliant.

Just fan-_fucking_-tastic.

At that one, House had wholeheartedly reassured the patient that he too wouldn't dare set foot into the outside world if he had a brain as small as hers – Lord knows, she may have run into the common sense that had obviously deserted her long ago, prompting her to have a panic attack when she realized that she was an_ actual_ complete waste of space.

Either that, or she actually enjoyed having every cardiology, respiratory and neurology test known to man performed on her in a bid to identify a diagnosis that explained her chest pain, breathlessness, dizziness, headaches, fainting spells, nausea… the list was endless.

Agoraphobic indeed…

_Idiot._

So finally, ten minutes after writing the now somewhat pissed off patient a prescription for anti-depressants and beta-blockers, along with a referral to a Psychologist, House was now good to go, safe in the knowledge that he'd saved yet another of this world's fools who couldn't use their initiative to tell the whole truth when it mattered, costing the hospital a small fortune in unnecessary tests and wasting his and his team's precious time.

Not that he gave a crap about any of that – no, what was pissing House off above all else was the fact that Wilson was probably crying into his Lo Mein over his cancer kids by now, wasting good food in the process and not appreciating the L-Word whatsoever for its utter sexy genius.

Although, knowing Wilson, he couldn't help but think that Mr. Serial Emotional Investor had probably taken himself miserably off to bed after eating his Chinese, cleaning the kitchen when he was done and leaving House's meal in the microwave ready to heat up for when he got in. If Wilson was pissed at him for letting him down in his hour of need, he _might_ have left a 'you're-a-jerk-but-I-don't-really-mean-this' note, pointing out the obvious in that he'd eaten already – _alone_ – that he'd done the kitchen (including the daily cleaning up all of House's crap) and that he'd done _his_ bit as a best friend in leaving House's meal ready in the microwave for him, despite the fact that he'd been, for want of a better phrase, stood up.

Oh, and PS: House owed him for said dinner in said microwave.

Oh, and PSS: Wilson would have made his lunch for tomorrow - House was not to go ANYWHERE NEAR IT. If he did, he would suffer. Horribly.

House grinned to himself as he swung his good leg over his bike, slotting his cane neatly into place before shoving his helmet on and roaring off into the cold night, knowing that he'd go straight home, locate the note and promptly do the opposite of whatever it said. If that meant eating Wilson's food that he'd made for tomorrow and leaving the takeout so lovingly placed in the microwave, then so be it.

If it wasn't for the fact that he knew Wilson loved it as much as he did, he would have stopped long ago, the affectionate thought keeping the knowing smile on House's face as he drove home before the spitting rain grew much heavier.

-[H]-

'Wilson? You still up? There's something wrong with the door, I can't get in.'

House was getting fed up of this – he was tired, cold, hungry and his leg was starting to act up,_ this_ was the last thing he needed.

When he got no answer, House tried again, turning the handle of the front door he'd just unlocked with his key and pushing it, yet getting nowhere. It felt like there was something heavy on the other side, shoved against the door for the very purpose of keeping him locked out.

'WILSON!'

Of course, if Wilson was _exceedingly_ annoyed with him, then he could have done this for that very reason… in which case, House decided, anger would get him nowhere.

One thing Wilson was a sucker for, however, was sweet-talking.

'Wilson, honeybuns, sweetums, whatever the frig you like… I'm _truly_ sorry for missing our cozy night in, babycakes. Can you open the door now please?'

Nothing.

It would seem that Wilson wasn't a fan of sweet-talking when laced with blatant sarcasm then.

'Fuck it – WILSON, YOU GREAT, BIG BLOODY _WOMAN_, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR! I'VE _HAD IT_ WITH YOU PMT, I'M A BLOODY _CRIPPLE_ FOR FUCK'S SAKE! MY. LEG. IS_…_ hurting… me._'_

House's shouting had trailed off, in a chilling moment, when he looked down to said leg only to then notice that his cane was currently resting just next to the faint outline of a bloodied footprint.

_Shit._

'Jesus – _WILSON!'_

Panicked, House roughly turned the handle again and braced his shoulder against the door, using his good leg to push against who he prayed wasn't lying unconscious on the other side, knowing even before the sour stench of vomit hit him that Wilson wasn't all tucked up in bed like he should have been, knowing even before his right shoe was suddenly slipping in the sticky blood that had congealed on their wooden floor that Wilson probably hadn't even opened his dinner, never mind crying into it while the L-Word droned on in the background.

The sight that greeted him when he could finally squeeze himself through the door was far worse than House could have imagined, his stomach turning horribly at the vision of his best friend slumped unconsciously on the other side, his lower half exposed, covered in copious amounts of blood and vomit that just seemed like far, far too much to have come from one person… and yet it had.

It fucking _had._

'Wilson! Wilson, _wake up!_' demanded House anxiously as he dropped to his knees, not caring about his leg now or the mess he was kneeling in as he shook Wilson hard, shouting past the lump in his throat that had arisen well before he saw the faint tear tracks that streaked through the mostly dried blood on the pale Oncologist's horribly stilled face, the same face that House could usually read like a book now thoroughly battered beyond recognition, bruised, swollen and covered in blood as it was.

'Wilson, come on,' pleaded House, pulling off his coat and jacket before desperately pulling the younger man into his lap as he wrapped them around Wilson's lower body, hugging his cold friend close with his fingers pressed against Wilson's carotid artery that, thankfully, emitted a regular pulse albeit weaker than usual.

Add that to Wilson's somewhat shallow breathing, and House had the first two ingredients of shock. Trauma induced psychological shock was a given, physical shock on the other hand…

He needed to identify any sources of Wilson's blood loss other than the obvious.

House didn't think twice about ripping Wilson's soiled shirt as the unconscious man lay in his lap, buttons pinging off as he searched for any evidence of a knife or bullet wound, his heart lurching at the nasty purple bruising that had blossomed all over Wilson's abused torso, breathing hard past the bile that had worked its way into House's throat. From what he could see and feel, hanging desperately on to the fact that psychological shock seemed to be the most likely type of shock in play, there didn't appear to be any physical wounds on the surface that were immediately threatening his best friend's life.

It wasn't the fucking _surface_ damage though that was fuelling the incensed burn behind House's distraught gaze.

The faint groan that emanated weakly then from Wilson was the first sign of his friend coming back to the land of the living, the blissfully unaware expression on Wilson's face born of his thankful unconsciousness now slowly morphing into one that was broken beyond belief.

'Wilson… Wilson, it's me,' murmured House shakily, gently brushing away the hair from Wilson's furrowed forehead as he held him, his hand hovering lightly over Wilson's blood-encrusted cheek while he waited for him to open his eyes.

He could only just hear him when he eventually managed a faintly choked gasp that was barely more than a whisper.

'_H..House…?'_

'I'm here, I've got you,' reassured House quickly, hugging Wilson tighter still at the faint tremors he could feel now rumbling through the Oncologist's cold body, 'You're safe now. I won't let them hurt you again, I promise.'

Wilson finally came round enough to open his eyes then, his overwhelmed gaze wide-eyed and his relief palpable for perhaps three long seconds as he took in the sight of the one person he wanted here above all else before he crumbled, the shame and fear that had taken root in the very depths of him claiming him wholly in their icy grip as he hid behind trembling hands, devastated.

House could do nothing but hold Wilson close as he broke down, rocking his destroyed friend to him as he clung to House, seeking solace in the older man as he buried his face in the warm darkness at the crook of House's neck, his sobs inconsolable.

'We need to get you to hospital,' muttered House thickly, trying so damn hard to not let his own tears fall and failing miserably at the state the most important person in his life had been left in at the hands of a monster.

He could feel Wilson tensing in his arms at the mere thought of such a thing, his panicked reply quite heartbreaking in the fright that underpinned every syllable as he started to shake his head, his breath hot against House's neck.

'_N-no!_ No, no, please, I can't-'

'James,' interrupted House softly, hoping that the unusual use of Wilson's forename might remind him of just how serious the situation was as he rubbed Wilson's back in their tight embrace, 'please – just let me get you to hospital to check you over. We can go anywhere; it doesn't have to be PPTH. But you need to be seen by a Doctor – you know you do.'

The mere thought of stepping foot outside that front door, even if he was with House, was just impossible for Wilson to even begin to contemplate. His whole illusion of safety had been shattered inside his own _home_, never mind setting foot into the same outside world as the scum who'd reduced him to _this_ in the first place.

'Please, House… please, don't make me go out there,' came Wilson's desperately whispered plea from his shoulder, flooring House in an instant as he realized that he just couldn't do it. He couldn't force his traumatized friend to do something he didn't want to. Despite the Doctor in him screaming blue murder that Wilson could potentially have anything going on inside, internal bleeding ranking quite high on his list of possibilities, he just couldn't bring himself to dial 911 against Wilson's will, not after the unspeakable force that had evidently been used against him already tonight.

'I won't make you to do anything, just so long as you're safe,' promised House gently, taking a deep breath before he carried on, 'but if you want me to treat you here, then you're going to have to tell me what happened. I'm not taking any chances when it comes to you, I'm sorry Wilson, but I'm not.'

Wilson froze, his breathing hitching, reacting exactly as House thought he would. If Wilson couldn't even bring himself to look into the concerned eyes of his best friend for more than a few seconds, hiding his face in House's shoulder as he was, he most certainly wasn't about to relay the experience verbally.

'Okay then…' continued House quietly, hating himself for doing this but knowing that he had no choice if he was about to make both the personal and professional decision to keep Wilson here, choosing his words carefully, 'just tell me this – do you think you've got any injuries, other than the obvious, that couldn't be managed here? I'm speaking as both your friend and attending Doctor, Wilson, you need to be honest.'

He felt Wilson shake his head, his shivering more pronounced now and reminding House that he needed to get his friend comfortable again as soon as possible.

And yet, House couldn't help but think that Wilson would still shake his head even if there were a bloody _knife_ sticking out of his chest, frightened as he was.

This wasn't going to work. House needed someone here to stand with him as Wilson's attending, someone who could play the common sense card when it was needed, but who hadn't invested absolutely _everything_ into the broken man he now held in his arms, yet still loved him dearly. Because right now, House couldn't help but think that he might end up doing more harm than good, biased as he was towards just wanting to hug his friend and make everything go away.

Luckily, he knew just the woman.

'Will you at least let me get Cuddy round here so we can both do our best to get you sorted? She can get whatever supplies we need from work then and bring them with her.'

'Oh, _God…_' groaned Wilson weakly, unable to stop the choked sob that escaped him then, unable to believe that this was even happening to him, knowing just what 'supplies' House was talking about and fearfully nodding his head into the crook of House's neck, despite every fiber of his being willing him to do the exact opposite.

Keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Wilson as he located his phone in his trouser pocket, House didn't hesitate to speed dial Cuddy, his hand drifting comfortingly up and down Wilson's arm as he shifted to let the silently screaming man rest his head exhaustedly against his chest; Wilson's unseeing, tear-filled eyes fixed on a random point on the wall as he focused wholly on the sound of House's familiar voice rumbling strangely in his ear – a comforting, yet completely alien sound to him given that they'd never been this close before.

Of course, there had never really been any past situations that warranted such proximity between them, until now.

'Cuddy? It's me – look, I know it's late, but you need to come over here as soon as. It's Wilson… he… he's been attacked.'

Wilson could hear the distant tones of her panicked voice on the other end, asking if he was okay, barely giving House a chance to answer before she was asking if he needed to go to hospital, closing his eyes with the shaming embarrassment that came with the nauseous anticipation of what House's next words would be, his head suddenly swirling as he broke out in a clammy sheen of sweat, blood rushing loudly in his ears… _too loudly…_

_He was going to faint._

'No, he… he's not great and he won't go to hospital. I need you to go to work before you come here and get me a… Oh, God – Cuddy, I need you to get me a… a rape kit.'

To which Wilson, as predicted, stopped fighting the opportunity to escape this living hell once more and promptly passed out against House's chest.


	3. Help Me

Hi, just to say thank you again for the lovely reviews!

Hope you enjoy this chapter! xxx

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><p>'<em>Reborn, and shivering.<em>

_Spat out, on new terrain…_

_Unsure, unconvincing._

_This faint, and shaky hour…'_

{Alanis Morissette: Not As We}

House's stomach dropped when he felt Wilson slump unconsciously against him, swearing and thanking Christ that Cuddy, after a brief moment of horrified disbelief as she'd numbly processed the dreadful news of the attack, had somehow managed to quickly pull herself together for Wilson's sake as House had known she would and jumped into Doctor mode; the pair of them taking perhaps two minutes to list everything they would need as she'd hurriedly pulled on a pair of jeans and her coat over pajamas before grabbing her keys and slamming her front door behind her.

Cuddy's parting words had been that she'd be here within the hour, and to get Wilson ready for when she arrived – the quicker they got him sorted, the better.

House wasn't sure that he could have handled this had she reacted any differently, relying on her inherent professionalism to get him through the next few hours whilst they treated their mutual best friend.

Their mutual best friend who wore his heart on his sleeve, so naively really, worrying about everyone except himself.

Their mutual best friend who'd been taken complete advantage of and violated in one of the worst possible ways.

_Their mutual best friend who was now a rape victim._

'_Fuck,'_ muttered House angrily from behind closed eyes, taking a sickened moment to swallow the horror of that thought before doing as Cuddy had done and pulling himself together in preparation for what had to be done tonight, moving to very carefully lie the unconscious Wilson back on the floor so he could pull himself up, wish wholeheartedly for at least two bastard Vicodin pills at the pain that flared wearingly through his right thigh, and limp off towards his friend's bedroom to retrieve his comforter, blankets and pillows.

If Wilson's theory of House's leg pain being wholly psychological was correct, then House could predict, with dreaded resignation, that his leg was going to be more than aching for a good while to come yet.

Spotting the small bin sat in the corner of Wilson's bedroom, House didn't think twice about emptying it out on the floor and taking that along with the bed clothes, sadly confident that it would be needed at least one more time tonight.

House returned to his motionless friend a minute later, dropping down once more to spread the comforter out on the cleaner floor next to Wilson, placing a pillow where his head was going to end up and three other pillows stacked on top of each other at the other end ready to prop his friend's feet up on, bolstered higher still with some of the cushions from the couch.

_He needed to prevent Wilson's blood pressure from dropping too low… the more cushions he had to raise Wilson's legs above heart level to get the blood flowing back again the better-_

'House?'

At the unexpected sound of Wilson's small voice cutting through his automated thinking process, House jumped slightly, looking up to meet the newly awake, and thoroughly scared, gaze of his usually calm and in control friend, the trembling of his lower lip giving away just how hard Wilson was working to stay on the brink of sanity, to stop himself falling into the screaming abyss that seemed so tempting right now as he shook from head to toe, curled up coldly amidst his own stale stomach contents on the hard floor.

God… he was a mess. A complete and utter, bewildered… mess.

'Come here,' instructed House softly, scooting across the made up bed to slowly help Wilson sit up, the shaking, dazed man allowing House to help him remove his soiled shirt, his instinct to protect himself evident in the subconscious gripping of House's jacket that was the only thing keeping his shredded dignity vaguely intact.

House worked mechanically and as quickly as possible, tossing the ripped, dirty shirt aside and wrapping a blanket around Wilson's cold shoulders; every wince-causing touch, bruise counting observation and uncomfortable intake of breath forming a hurried, yet thorough, examination in House's head as he assessed what he could of Wilson's injuries.

He didn't miss the telling, shallow slash on Wilson's throat, the straight edge of the blade that had held him hostage, that had enabled _this_, clearly imprinted there.

House couldn't help it, pausing for an internally enraged moment to ever so gently run his thumb over the forcibly sliced skin, his glistening eyes terrified at the thought of what a little more pressure could have so easily done, severing his best friend's lifeline to leave Wilson bleeding out alone on the floor of their Condo.

It just didn't bear thinking about.

'I'm sorry,' whispered Wilson faintly as he watched the raw jumble of emotions playing so vividly in House's eyes, that instinct to help wherever he could, like he did routinely everyday, surfacing even in his current state as he reached for House's stilled hand. The gesture would normally have had both men running, terrified, in opposite directions, but right now it was the only thing keeping Wilson anchored to his horrifying reality.

His sudden, so _normal_, intuitive confirmation of the 'what-if' thoughts that were so obviously racing around his friend's head snapped House very swiftly back to the present, the Diagnostician's cheeks coloring slightly when he realized Wilson was trying his best to make this less painful for_ him_, trying to act as a bloody_ buffer_ in a situation that had robbed Wilson of a part of himself that he would never get back.

If anything, Wilson needed House to be that buffer now, not the other way round.

'No, don't.. don't apologize,' mumbled House, squeezing Wilson's cold hand back whilst simultaneously fighting the equally strong urges to either just hug Wilson as tight as possible and never let him go, vomit and then hyperventilate or take himself off as far away as he could, via whatever means, from this horrible situation that had been so breathtakingly close to realizing his worst nightmare. Alcohol, Vicodin or just plain old-fashioned walking with his cane, he didn't really care.

He could feel it now, they both could - that unspoken, subtle, possessive streak that ran so reflexively in both men, usually just an undercurrent that never kept one far away from the other for long, weaving their lives so casually together that they now came as one of a pair, becoming an extension of each other whether they liked it or not. To have someone force themselves so violently in between that, in such a cruel manner, had only served to brutally yank that unspoken undercurrent to the confusing surface, magnifying it tenfold and leaving neither man with a clue as to what the hell was meant to happen next.

'Cuddy'll have me on permanent clinic duty if I don't get my act together,' said House softly, taking a deep breath before reluctantly releasing Wilson's hand and carrying on, asserting himself in the situation once more as Wilson's attending, treading medical ground that was familiar to both of them.

'So… judging from the blood on your face, I'm guessing the majority of the stuff you've got me swimming in is from your nose and your mouth,' continued House, mechanical once again as he moved on to maneuver an ashamed Wilson's trousers and boxers from around his ankles to throw them with the shirt, 'I don't think your nose is broken. Did you bite your tongue somewhere along the line?'

Wilson nodded tiredly, his mortified eyes following every move House made, wanting nothing more than to just let the ground open up and swallow him whole as he fought the dizzying urge to vomit.

'Okay – well, I'm voting no to internal bleeding for now, given that sitting you up didn't have you screaming, and your vomit's clear of blood. But I meant what I said before, I'm taking no chances. Not with you. So if you feel anything, anything at all, then you tell me. Alright?'

Another barely perceptible nod.

'Good,' affirmed House, marginally happier now that he mostly knew what he was dealing with and crawling awkwardly along the comforter to end up next to Wilson, who didn't resist at all as House slowly guided him off the cold floor and onto the relative comfort of the comforter, 'You're going into psychological shock. I'm going to get your feet raised and get you warm again and hopefully you'll start to feel like you don't want to chuck up all over the place, okay?'

Wilson nodded again, stopping quickly and clamping his mouth shut as he realized that House's reassuring words had perhaps come too late, gratefully grabbing the bin that was thrust in front of him and unwillingly retching, vomiting nothing but bile at this point as his stomach continued to heave painfully.

Wilson hadn't even noticed House leaving him for a moment until a glass of water was dangled in front of him.

'At least you didn't take aim at the floor this time,' reproached House lightheartedly, busying himself with positioning the pillows under Wilson's feet, looking up just in time to see an appreciative, fleeting smile cross Wilson's battered face before he raised the glass to his lips, wincing.

'Sips only, please,' instructed House, relieved beyond measure that a glimpse of the old Wilson had shone through even if only for a few moments, 'You know the drill - Doctor's orders, and all that.'

As it was, Wilson simply swilled his mouth out with the water, focusing on taking deep, uncertain breaths and setting both the glass and the bin down next to him before easing himself onto his back, never having appreciated the bliss of a blanket as much as he did when House threw one over his lower half to add to the warmth and coverage of House's jacket and coat.

'Hang on while I get another blanket, I'll only be a min.'

When House came back into the dimly lit room a minute later as promised, third blanket in hand, it was to find Wilson lying where he'd left him, the blanket that had been around his shoulders now bunched up tightly in his fists as he hid most of his face in it. Only his stricken eyes peeped out over the top to stare, unwavering and lifeless, at the back of the sofa that had provided the backdrop for his attack; his own, telling crimson hand prints a startling contrast to the cream fabric, silent tears streaming down his bloodied cheeks and into the pillow as his ravaged mind cruelly replayed every single, soul shattering detail over and over again.

Wilson couldn't help his eyes numbly following the smudged trail of blood that ran down to the ground.

The shameful evidence was there for all to see, smeared disgustingly into the grain of the wooden floor that he'd absolutely loved when he bought this place, a beautiful wooden floor that now had the sordid essence of his attacker seeping through the cracks, never to be scrubbed away; always, _always_ there to taunt him of the nine appalling minutes that would haunt James Wilson for evermore; reminding him every minute of every single day of the reason why his skin crawled constantly, why he felt so dirty, so thoroughly _contaminated_, that no one in their right mind would ever touch him again… why he'd never feel what it was to be happy anymore, content in himself, constantly balancing on this painful knife edge between absolute despair and overwhelming, repulsed shame.

House could see every heartbreaking thought that flashed through Wilson's hollow eyes as he watched him, making his choice right there and impulsively moving slowly forward after a few seconds to purposely intercept Wilson's line of vision as he fixed his leg to lie down next to him, throwing the blanket over them both and giving in to that urge to just pull his shivering wreck of a friend close, Wilson's cheek coming to rest on House's chest where he gave in and wept, feeling connected to nothing in this world except the man who held him so safely now, apologizing over and over again as he gripped House's shirt.

'It's not your fault, Wilson,' murmured House defiantly, his chin resting lightly in Wilson's hair as he wrapped him in his arms, 'I promise you, this is _not _your fault. You've got nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all. And once Cuddy's here with the stuff we'll get you sorted as quickly as we can, okay?'

Wilson nodded, scrubbing the tears away with the palm of his hand and taking a few shaken breaths in an attempt to calm down, his feeble voice saturated with dread and embarrassment when he could bring himself to ask a question he'd been dreading for what seemed like forever now.

'Will you… will it be you or Lisa who.. who do the.. the-'

'Me,' intervened House softly, knowing what Wilson was trying to get at here, the thought of having to examine for and take evidence of rape from his own best friend thoroughly nauseating to think about, but attempting a shot at light humor anyway in a bid to make this easier for both of them, 'Wilson, as the person responsible for getting you pissed off your face, and consequently pantless, many a time, I think it's safe to say that I've seen your rude bits more times than is healthy for a normally functioning friendship. Luckily, our friendship, as you point out on a daily basis, is at the very least _dys_functional. Add that to the fact that me knowing you have a mole on your left butt cheek means I can outbid Cuddy every time in the best friend stakes, and we have ourselves a winner, don't you think?'

'But you've… House, you've never had to _swab_ me before,' whispered Wilson shamefacedly, tempted to stop fighting the continually overwhelming urge to just get up now, throw himself into the bath and forcefully scrub away the slick mess that he could feel drying to his inner thighs, crawling coldly over his flesh like some sort of live disease, permeating his skin, his nostrils, _everything_.

'No,' admitted House thoughtfully, quite aware of the revolted shudders that intermittently ran through Wilson as they were speaking, and had been for some time now, 'But I do vaguely remember me and you doing the Full Monty on the bar of that club, finally dropping our pants and you _missing_ the correct placement of the cowboy hat that woman gave you, realizing what had happened pretty much at the same time I did and promptly falling onto your ass behind the bar. Fuck knows, we must have been tanked-up pretty good 'cause you kept whining about your broken ass as we staggered home and I actually agreed to examine it when we got back to mine to make sure you hadn't done anything serious. As a Doctor, I'd like to think I examined your back as well as your back_side_, but all I honestly remember is noticing you have that tiny mole on your left butt cheek before drunkenly declaring your ass medically fit to be discharged from my care. You were happy with that and whined no more, passing out on my bed about ten seconds later.'

'You promised we'd never speak of that night again,' groaned Wilson quietly, smiling for a second despite himself at the fuzzy memory of it.

'I'm merely pointing out that you have nothing that I haven't seen before… well, you didn't _then_. You haven't acquired anything new that you're gonna surprise me with, have you? Or, God forbid, given Cuddy a sneaky peek of the mole during one of your many House analysis sessions in her office?'

'No!' laughed Wilson weakly, amazed at the ability House had to bring a smile to his face even in circumstances as horrifying as these.

'Well then,' affirmed House, 'I'll be seeing nothing I haven't had front row tickets to before. The Nurses from Pediatrics who were on a hen do that night, however…'

'House!'

'Okay, okay, I'll shut up about it now. You've always wondered why every Nurse in the tri-state area loves you, though – well, now you know. Put simply: you're the Head of Oncology who didn't leave his hat on. That's all I'm saying.'

They were interrupted quite suddenly then by a light knock at the front door behind them, any hope of progress House had made with his traumatized friend quickly undone as the ominous noise that had signaled the end of life as he knew it brought the fear of God back into Wilson's eyes, the frantic man scrabbling back from a momentarily stunned House as he immediately panicked, his breath coming in wheezing bursts as he realized he couldn't breathe, sitting up now and clawing desperately at his throat, forgetting everything but the band of crushing pain that was wrapped around his chest, squeezing and squeezing ever tighter, not even feeling House's hands shaking him by the shoulders as he shouted his name, trying and failing to calm Wilson down.

'House, it's me, let me in!' called Cuddy anxiously from the other side of the door, only knocking louder upon hearing the commotion on the other side and feeling utterly helpless to do anything, not realizing that her banging on the door was only further fuelling Wilson's terror within.

The door was ripped open a few seconds later where she came face to face with her furious Head of Diagnostics, his bright blue stare filled with devastated anger at the cold realization that all Wilson's rapist had done to gain access to their Condo and violate his best friend in such a cruel manner was _knock._

Something so fucking _normal_ as answering their front door had led to the event that had evidently shattered Wilson into a million pieces.

House was beyond seething, because now, _now_ he could see, with appalling simplicity, just how irreversibly broken his friend was, all for the sake of some primal, sick act that had spawned as much savage pleasure for one predatory party as it had pain for the other.

How the hell were he and Cuddy supposed to bring Wilson back from that?

By this time, Cuddy had hastily dropped the stuff she was carrying at the open door to quickly push past a seemingly frozen House and drop down in front of Wilson, forcing herself to ignore his struggling and take his battered face firmly in her hands as she spoke, steadfast in keeping him there when he instinctively tried to pull away, her voice professionally calm despite the horror that was welling up inside her at the destroyed sight of him.

'Wilson, it's me. It's _me_. You're having a panic attack. You need to try and calm down, alright? _Calm down.'_

It took a while but finally, after what felt like forever, she could feel him slowly starting to relax in her grip as her words registered, his breathing still labored and shallow as he finally relented to cover her hands with his own, hands that were absolutely freezing and shaking as she gently thumbed away warm tears from his blood smeared cheeks beneath them, willing him to do what seemed to be so hard and just open his tightly squeezed shut eyes.

'Wilson – look at me… James, _look at me.'_

What Cuddy saw when Wilson finally did calm down just enough to drag his tired eyes open broke her heart, the warm whorls of dark brown that usually held such comfort and peace within now buried completely beneath utter exhaustion and bewildered terror. They were just so incredibly… lost. That inherently innocent, content spark that had always been there no matter what, that spark that made Wilson the wonderful, kind hearted, soulful man he was in everything he did was just… _gone_.

The wrecked man before her was now a battered shell of the man he used to be, his shining eyes so empty as they screamed out for a lifeline, begging for someone to please, just… help.

'Oh, sweetheart…' whispered Cuddy sadly, giving in to the lump that was growing bigger in her throat and allowing her own tears to finally spill over as she leaned forward to press a kiss to Wilson's clammy forehead, pulling back and never for a moment breaking panicked eye contact with him as she eased him through it, his hands that still covered hers shaking hard now as he focused on his breathing, his chest opening up again now with every passing second.

Cuddy didn't hesitate to gladly hug Wilson to her when he was finally released from his panic attack, hopeless exhaustion seeming to drain from every pore as he collapsed heavily against her, sobbing so helplessly that it was all Cuddy could do to not sit there and cry along with him, looking up to see this sentiment reflected right back at her in the anxious gaze of House, the gloves already on his hands and the kit spread on the floor in readiness for the examination.

They needed to just get this over with now.

'Wilson-'

'Please, just… just do it,' came Wilson's choked plea, pulling back from Cuddy with a shuddering intake of breath, where his tearful gaze came to rest on the various clinical elements of the rape kit spread out at the foot of his make do bed.

House was already moving to grab the discarded bin, any hint of color that had been evident beneath the dried blood on Wilson's cheeks having swiftly drained away at the sight of the medical kit before him.

The bin got there just in time, Wilson's already aching stomach offering little warning as he promptly vomited into it, the feeling that was suffocating him now so beyond shame that he felt almost numb. He barely felt Cuddy gently pulling him down to rest his head in her lap after that, stroking his hair and his cheek so softly that his eyes drifted shut. He was barely aware of House messing with his legs to get him into the fetal position ready for the examination. He didn't realize how hard he gripped the blanket that he was covered in, replacing House's coat and jacket to hold at least some of his dignity intact.

He didn't know just how violently he was trembling as House began, tears coursing down his cheeks into Cuddy's jeans from behind closed eyes, every shamed breath so shuddered that his chest hurt.

Working as quickly as he could for Wilson's sake, barely there and working on autopilot, House could think only of the millions of people who repeatedly laughed and joked about wanting to 'curl up and die' as they relayed to their friends embarrassing incidents in life that had had them momentarily flummoxed. Hell, Wilson himself had flippantly said that himself a good few times over the years, usually because of something House had done. Cuddy too, for the same reason.

But in that moment, at the very real state of his friend, House couldn't help but feel that the scene before him illustrated the true nature of that phrase, only knowing now, with sickening clarity, what it truly was to witness someone who would rather be dead than to carry on for a second longer in their own personal hell.

And it wasn't funny.

It wasn't funny at all.


	4. Don't Leave Me

Thanks again for your reviews, they mean a lot! I sincerely apologize for

anything that gives my Britishness away, I try my best :D xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>Eyes wet, toward…<em>

_Wide open, frayed._

_If God's taking bets…_

_I pray He wants to lose.'_

{Alanis Morissette: Not As We}

'That's everything, I think,' stated House finally after what seemed like hours later, handing a shell-shocked Wilson his post-exposure prophylactic pills and a glass of water in a bid to protect him against the very real possibility of HIV and any other sexually transmitted infections, the endless swabs that had been taken from every part of him now sat harmlessly in the box next to House, along with Wilson's blood, hair and fingernail samples.

The whole humiliating process had been nothing short of grueling; a stunned, tired, _relieved_ silence having descended over the three of them the moment it was over, none of them quite able to believe where this night had led them. Now, as he slowly sat back on the comforter at Wilson's bare feet, not even realizing that he was slowly kneading his damaged thigh, House could barely take in the devastation that they were sat right in the middle of, the utter carnage that covered the floor, the back of the couch and the door graphically illustrating Wilson's rapidly struggling descent into _this._

His cane was lying there on the floor next to the front door, having been anxiously discarded a couple of hours ago now.

It was lying in a slick puddle of Wilson's congealing blood and vomit, the crude observation making House's breath catch horribly in his dry throat.

_This shouldn't be happening._

_This was all wrong._

His overcome eyes found Cuddy's then, her face a mirror image of his if her aghast expression was anything to go by as she gazed back at him over Wilson's fluffy head, having instinctively wrapped her shattered Head of Oncology in her arms, cocooning him in his blankets and offering him a temporary refuge; the profound safety of which had relaxed him enough to let him begin to exhaustedly drift off and escape this nightmare, if only for a few minutes.

The same couldn't be said of her and House, neither of them able to escape the sheer shock of what they'd just had to do to their friend, as necessary as it had been.

Thankfully, House had gotten the most invasive part of the examination over before anything else, clinging desperately to Cuddy's comforting voice as much as Wilson was as she'd attempted to soothe their damaged friend for the duration, the endless, humiliated tears that had trickled miserably down Wilson's cheeks into her lap continuing no matter what she said. Before long, House was gladly covering Wilson back up again to move on to the rest of his body, determined to take every tiny shred of evidence he could to get the bastard who had caused all this in the first place caught and behind bars.

House didn't know if Wilson was going to go to the Police, but he sure as hell hadn't been about to do a half-assed job just to get the job done quicker, not when Wilson had so clearly lost it a good while back and wouldn't thank him in the long run for putting him through it for absolutely nothing. House wasn't stupid, he knew damn well there would come a time, be that in the next hour or the next year, when Wilson would be unbelievably angry, angry and resentful of anything and anyone that reminded him of this night… the least he could do was make sure his friend had solid evidence on Police records to convict the scum who'd made him like that, who'd not only robbed him of his sense of self, but who'd also dragged two of the people he loved most into what was surely one of the worst times of his life, House's and Cuddy's ongoing, double-edged presence never letting him forget that, both of them forever associated with this terrifying night despite Wilson needing them with him now more than ever.

Yet despite this, and despite usually being an avid fan of having to be cruel to be kind… here… well, here it had just made House feel thoroughly sick, as necessary as the process was. His medical act felt every bit as violating as the criminal act Wilson had just suffered through, House knowing full well that, one day, his leading role in the aftermath would most likely either make or break his and Wilson's friendship. Wilson had never been so vulnerable in all his life, forcibly laid bare in both the physical and psychological sense before House, stripped of any defenses to leave him completely and utterly cut open. Therefore, logically, House knew he was either going to become his safety blanket, there to offer Wilson a safe haven and to pick up the pieces to rebuild his friend back into the man he used to be, or Wilson was going to suffocate under the smothering effects of that same safety blanket, House's ongoing presence never letting him move on from this night.

Either way, things would never be the way they were, and House was utterly terrified he was going to lose in a twisted game that none of them, least of all Wilson, had wanted to play in the first place.

'Go and run a bath and I'll bring him in,' instructed Cuddy finally, her calmly uttered words gently cutting through House's dazed thinking, his perceptive friend and boss giving him the much needed opportunity to escape this, if only for a few minutes, to just get his aching head together once more.

House nodded, still not making a move but instead casting one more guilt-ridden glance at Wilson who was now restlessly dozing against Cuddy's chest as she held him within his blankets, gently stroking his hair back from his forehead. Despite her loving administrations, and his utter exhaustion, the need to just be free now of the revulsion that had seeped into every pore was still etched painfully into Wilson's expression, the energy to move from this comfy spot having drained away as soon as House had said the examination was over, too weary now to think past the next minute, never mind into the next few months.

He looked like some sort of abandoned rag doll, carelessly lost on the sidewalk and broken beyond repair as a result.

House felt like the innocently careless child who'd lost that beloved rag doll on the way home from school, realizing hours later when he couldn't find that rag doll anywhere that it must have fallen out of his bag and running back as fast as he could, only to find it dirtied and torn apart on the dusty ground, feeling wholly responsible for the injuries that could never be wholly repaired no matter how many people tried to fix it, his rag doll never again working quite like it used to.

All because he hadn't looked after it like he was meant to.

_God, if he'd just come home on time, none of this would have happened-_

'House,' insisted Cuddy gently, breaking through his troubled thoughts once more, reminding him that now was not the time for either of them to be wallowing in their own guilt, not yet, not until they'd ensured that Wilson was sorted. Without a word, he pulled himself up and turned to quickly limp off to Wilson's bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him and switching the hot water onto full before allowing himself a much needed moment of reprieve to gratefully sit down on the closed toilet seat, rubbing his leg hard now, and breathing past the building nausea as he guiltily closed his eyes.

_He was going to lose._

_And Wilson was going to hate him. _

That was all House could think, knowing as he did that none of this need have happened had he just come home and been there for Wilson for once. His patient's symptoms weren't life threatening, she could have waited till morning for him to work out then that she hadn't given him nor his team a complete history. Hell, any other Doctor, given the choice, would have chosen their best friend over their patient every time, especially if their friend had so obviously been in need of their company that evening. Any _normal_ human being would have been there.

And yet House, unsurprisingly, hadn't been.

His intrinsic need to find out the answer, to solve the mystery no matter how big or small, to find that missing piece in the puzzle that saved his patients' lives where other Doctors failed… that intrinsic need to do his job to the best of his ability, placing those puzzles at the top of his priority list, even taking precedence over his personal life… well, that intrinsic fucking _need_ had just cost Wilson everything. Absolutely _everything_.

Because House knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Wilson would never have been attacked tonight had he been home. Oh, he might have been on the receiving end of a few nasty blows, they both would have been, but limp or no limp, House knew, with quite frightening certainty, that he wouldn't have thought twice about mercilessly killing any bastard who dared to threaten Wilson with anything remotely close to rape, his supposedly beloved career and all its puzzle-presenting perks be damned.

And he wouldn't have had an ounce of remorse.

And yet none of that protective conviction mattered, because he hadn't even cared enough to just leave work for once and come home to be with Wilson in the first place.

And Wilson would soon realize that, be that tomorrow or next week, when he began asking _why_, _why_ had he been chosen, out the billions of people in this world, to become a victim of rape, _why_ had it happened tonight, _why_ had he answered that fucking door when it was pitch black outside, offering the perfect cover for the perverted bastard to choose his moment as he'd pleased… _why_ hadn't House come home with him like he'd said he would in the first place? _Why_ had Wilson been left on his own to deal with the death of two innocent children, to deal with his failure as a Doctor to dutifully save their little lives, when he had a supposed best friend who was meant to be there for him, to help him through times like that, to tell him he wasn't to blame?_ Why_ did he continue to rely on House, when he'd toed the line so many times, almost, _almost_ costing Wilson dearly but never quite dearly enough to break them?

_Why_ had he never learned to just cut his losses while he was still in one piece?

Because that last thought had been true, until a few hours ago, when Wilson had paid a damn fucking high price thanks to House's failure to show.

And House knew full well that his friend was lucky to not have paid with his life.

_He was going to lose._

_And Wilson was going to hate him._

The thought was crippling, literally so when House remembered that Wilson probably wouldn't appreciate being boiled alive, biting his lip hard against the stabs of cramping pain that fired through his thigh as he leant forward to switch the cold water on full blast for a minute, unable to help the hiss that escaped him when his thigh then went into spasm, forcing him to fall back down again to his seat.

He could do nothing but clutch his leg uselessly as he prayed for the knotting muscle to relax again, breathing deeply in between low moans that were covered, thankfully, by the sound of the cold water running.

Unfortunately, less than a minute later, the close to overflowing tub quickly put an end to that cover up, the effort it took for House to just stand and switch the water off eliciting a growl that bordered on a pained cry, his teeth clenched as he gripped the side of the bath.

'Your leg hurts.'

House jumped for the second time that night at the sound of Wilson's shattered voice, turning round quickly from the filled tub to find him stood barefoot in the doorway, the blankets that Cuddy had obviously wrapped tightly around him before sending him in making him look like a lost little boy as he clung to them, looking so trustfully to House, exhausted and still trembling, his sleepy eyes still raw from crying.

He looked so _unlike_ his Wilson that House found he could barely speak past the lump that had been in his throat for a while now, a horrible feeling akin to grief flooding him as he stared sadly, almost fearfully, back at Wilson. He felt so, so guilty for letting him down and yet so protective of the broken man who stood before him, this quite frankly brilliant man who was everything a best friend and Head of Oncology should be, now completely unrecognizable in his wretched state.

'It's fine,' lied House automatically through gritted teeth, despite the fact that it quite obviously wasn't.

'House, I've been raped – that doesn't make me fucking _blind_. Or stupid,' shot back Wilson bitterly, the humiliated, shame-ridden anger that House had predicted only minutes ago surging from him in a startling instant before instantly dying away again, leaving both of them suitably mortified in the ringing silence that reigned afterwards in the small room.

House stared at him for a long, resigned moment before sighing loudly and lowering himself to sit on the side of the tub, making no effort now to hide the slowly easing pain as he grinded his fist hard into his scarred thigh. He had lied to Wilson for a reason just then, because he knew the inevitable conclusion Wilson would jump to.

He also knew that, pretty soon, he'd be proven right in his thinking.

He wasn't wrong.

'House, don't go… please, don't go,' pleaded Wilson faintly after an unnerving couple of minutes spent ruefully watching his friend, having realized as soon as he'd opened the door that his worst fear was coming true right before his very eyes; everything about House, from his clearly hurting leg to the guilt-ridden, tear glazed eyes that looked up to meet his, screaming that, any minute now, he would be gone.

Because that's what Greg House did.

He would either run a mile from this, or hit the Vicodin again, both similarly taking away the House he knew and loved at a time when he needed him so much, neither of which Wilson could handle right now, his chest beginning to tighten again as his panic went into overdrive once more, taking a frightened step back to block the doorway and barely able to get his words out in between breaths that were steadily becoming more ragged.

'Please, don't.. don't leave me.. I – I didn't.. I _couldn't.._ House, you _can't_-'

'I'm not going anywhere, Wilson,' interrupted House quietly, carefully pulling himself up onto his now less paining leg and thoroughly ashamed that his best friend obviously knew he couldn't rely on him at all, even at a time as awful as this. Wilson clearly knew him too well to expect him to stay, and that knowledge, at this point, was obviously just a bit too much, the anxious man staying right where he was in barricading House's only possible exit as he tried to control his breathing.

House didn't move for fear of sending Wilson over the edge, settling instead for merely watching, with some difficulty, Wilson attempt to ward off the panic attack that his body was so clearly wanting him to succumb to, patiently waiting by the bath and giving his friend the opportunity to seize back control over himself and the situation he was in, the usually taken for granted control that he'd been violently robbed of earlier on now in tattered shreds.

When Wilson could eventually speak, it was to weakly voice a long-term fear that both of them were silently terrified of, that Cuddy too was surely terrified of, unable to bring himself to meet House's gaze and choosing instead to root his frightened eyes to the emotionless safety of the floor; House's promise to not leave him the only thing here that was giving him the strength to say this.

'What if…' began Wilson, taking a shaken breath and pulling the blankets tighter around himself before carrying on a moment later, eyes closed now and clearly more scared than he sounded, 'House… what if I've got… What if the meds don't work?'

_What if I've got HIV?_

The unspoken possibility hung sickeningly in the air between them, both knowing that, medically, the pills didn't mean he'd definitely be cleared of any possible HIV in the end, both knowing that, by now, the virus could potentially have already taken root, beginning to unfold the festering damage that would at the very least impact horribly in all areas of his life, and at the most… well, at the most the unwillingly contracted virus would most certainly limit his life span, quite ruthlessly so.

It was chilling to even begin to contemplate.

Wilson was surprised when he felt House's hands finally gripping his shoulders then, looking up with frayed bewilderment into defiant, bright blue eyes that were clearly hell bent on making damn sure that any part of his stuttered sentence, spoken with such trepidation, wouldn't come to fruition.

'They will work,' vowed House softly, relenting to Wilson's blatant distress and folding him into the hug that he so clearly needed, the heavy sigh that escaped his friend as he relaxed into the older man's secure hold so wearily relieved that House knew he couldn't leave him even if he wanted to, his voice gritty and heartfelt when he spoke words that Wilson needed so desperately to hear.

'And when you're going through all the crappy side-effects over the next few weeks, feverish and waking up at all hours in a cold sweat, vomiting past yourself, I'll be there. When you're scared shitless every day, when we test you in a few months time, you won't be on your own. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, I promise I'll be there, alright? I'm going nowhere.'

Wilson nodded wearily into House's shoulder, a nauseating array of confusing emotions battling for dominance within him, knowing that this side of House was most likely one he may never see again, but relieved beyond measure that he could be like this, just for now, just for tonight. Wilson couldn't help worrying about House's leg, the guilt he felt at House's possible temptation to down Vicodin because of him, on top of everything else, just crushing. He couldn't think past the absolute fear of HIV, of the _unknown_, he could barely breathe past the numbness of what he'd endured already tonight… this tight, unusually tender hold was doing more than House could ever know, cushioning him just a little, blessed bit when he was falling so, so hard into a dark, screaming pit of despair.

But above all, above all else, he longed for the hot bath his tortured gaze was now fixed upon, revolted disgust crawling horribly over every inch of his skin.

'Get in before it goes cold,' murmured House perceptively, feeling every undeserved ounce of the self-loathing rolling off Wilson in waves, not missing the fleeting anxiety that flashed through Wilson's eyes as he pulled back to release him, anxiety that House suspected he knew the various reasons for.

'Just let me go and get your pajamas for you and then I'll see what Cuddy's up to, okay? You can shout if you need anything, and I'll come in.'

Wilson nodded, watching House as he limped from the room and making doubly sure that the bathroom door was open just a crack so House could still hear him if need be, painfully embarrassed at the panic that came so easily to him now, panic that arose most quickly when House's presence with him was threatened in any way.

_Or when a total stranger threatened him with _their _presence, breaking into his home and forcing themselves onto him, swiftly taking whatever their sick little minds needed in one agonizing moment, leaving him lying broken on the floor-_

He was at the little bathroom window before he knew it, double checking and checking again that it was locked, hating himself for being like this but so frightened of his attacker coming back that he just couldn't help it.

It was only once Wilson turned round again that he saw his folded pajamas lying there on the floor by the slightly open door, just as House had promised, hot shame stabbing at him as he wondered what House and Cuddy must think of him after everything that had happened tonight, grieving for the man he used to be.

The man he was now… weak and pathetic… it was humiliating.

Completely and utterly _humiliating._

And as he let his blankets fall to the floor, stepping into the warm water and lowering his aching body into its soothing depths, Wilson couldn't help himself as he took the flannel and began viciously scrubbing at his contaminated thighs, biting his lip in a choked attempt to hold everything in.

It was no good.

He closed his eyes and sobbed.


	5. What Have I Become, My Sweetest Friend?

Hi everyone, thank you all soooo much for your reviews they mean the world!

Seriously, you spur me on with your support, thank you very, very much! :D xxx

PS I've added to the ending of this chapter to avoid confusion... I hope it makes

more sense for you all! Just to reassure you - House is most definately NOT the

attacker! Re-read it to get rid of that horrible thought! :D xx

* * *

><p>'<em>I hurt myself today…to see if I still feel.<em>

_I focus on the pain… the only thing that's real._

_The needle tears a hole… the old, familiar sting._

_Try to kill it all away… but I remember everything…'_

{Leona Lewis: Hurt}

House only just made it out of Wilson's bedroom into the shadowed hallway before he had to stop, breathing deeply past the overwhelmed hammering of his heart and closing his eyes as he leant back against the wall, feeling utterly useless.

He wasn't used to this.

Wilson was usually the reasonable one, the silently strong one, the one who worried constantly over the enigmatic man-child that was his best friend, not the other way around.

That was just how it was, how they _worked_.

But right now, and with the image of Wilson fumbling so frantically with the handle of his bathroom window seared guiltily onto his tired brain, House really wasn't sure he could step into Wilson's shoes and do what his friend did so willingly, so _naturally_, for him every minute of every day.

Hell, House hadn't even been able to bring himself to let Wilson know he was there as he'd quietly opened the bathroom door to find him checking that damn window so bloody thoroughly, the disconcerting sight of his usually assured best friend so obviously insecure in himself and his safety quite heart wrenching to discover, hence House taking the coward's way out and leaving Wilson's pajamas on the floor for him to find when he was finished, silently closing the door over again.

He was ashamed.

_How the fuck had it come to this?_

'Hey… thought you could do with a drink.'

At the sound of Cuddy's weary voice, House opened his eyes, his troubled gaze falling first to the similar turmoil swirling in her shimmering grey eyes and then down to the generously poured scotch proffered in her left hand, before coming to rest at the Ibuprofen and Paracetemol pills sat in the palm of her right.

It was a heavenly sight, despite the distinct lack of Vicodin.

'Thanks,' muttered House gruffly, gratefully downing the four pills with his scotch, his grip on the now almost empty glass white-knuckled as he collapsed back again to the wall, simply staring at the wall opposite while he focused wholly on waiting for Wilson.

Cuddy didn't miss the telling tension in his grip, nor the slight shaking of his hand, taking a small step forward to take House's free hand in hers, gently squeezing it as she similarly leant back against the wall next to him with a soft sigh.

It was a mark of just how uncharacteristically scared House was too that she felt him first freeze slightly before deftly squeezing her hand back a few seconds later, that one simple, most definitely _un_Housian gesture giving away just how little he was actually coping here, neither of them willing to let go as they stood there, side by side in the hallway that was lit only by the dim light of the living room, thinking only of Wilson in the room behind them.

'I took swabs from the floor and I've cleaned up as best I can,' said Cuddy absently, more to break the heavy silence than anything else, a nausea induced grimace clouding her pale face as her numbed brain replayed that process in a barrage of stomach-turning images, her marigold-gloved hands having seemed to work on autopilot as she'd gotten down on her hands and knees, baulking for her abused friend as she'd scoured the door and floor clean, Wilson's soiled bedclothes now shoved into a trash bag ready to be disposed of.

'And I've left the back of the couch soaked with bleach… there wasn't any other way. I don't know if it'll work, but-'

'I don't care about the damn _couch_,' interrupted House tiredly, suddenly acutely aware of just how much he hated this loft now, this supposed _home_ that had utterly failed to keep Wilson safe… now, it was nothing more than a crime scene, nothing more than the tortured setting in which his best friend had been cruelly subjected to one of the most horrific experiences he could possibly go through. Now, the tainted place served only as a constant reminder that some sick bastard had marked what was House's as his own, claiming what wasn't his by brute force, and leaving House now aching to wrap his hands around the scum's throat and make him suffer as Wilson had done, and was going to for a long time to come.

Without knowing it, House had instantly made a decision as soon as he'd squeezed through the front door for Wilson a few hours ago, a decision that, really, was the only logical step for the pair of them to take next in preserving what was left of the battered Oncologist.

'I'm taking Wilson back to my place as soon as he wakes up in the morning. He can't stay here. _We_ can't stay here, not after this. I don't care what he says… we're going. And you're not going anywhere till the morning either, not when there's a fucking _rapist_ running round the place. You've been out there once thanks to me, you don't need to be out there again.'

Cuddy could only nod, holding his hand that bit tighter, not entirely surprised at either suggestion. What had happened tonight… it was enough to make anybody protective of those close to them, even House, as uncaring as he usually appeared to be to those who didn't know him so well.

And yet, even as she thought that, she knew the one, lone person that every member of staff at PPTH would immediately name as being the only individual House ever displayed any genuine emotion for if asked, James Wilson being the one aspect of House's life that the Diagnostician, sometimes not so obviously at times, cherished above all else.

Of course, as cherished as Wilson was, that also automatically made him the one hidden chink in House's armor that made him surreptitiously weak when he otherwise seemed invincible, the one thing that, if harmed in any way by someone other than himself, could strip House of any of his usual defenses in a stricken heartbeat to reveal him in his most vulnerable, human light.

The same went for Wilson – ask either man who lectured, nagged and berated House the most for being, well, _House_, and both would answer Wilson. Because that's who he was, openly human and consequently fallible to the daily frustrations and ordeals that life threw at him, most of which usually came his way due to something totally idiotic that his best friend had dragged him into, guilt being one emotion that Wilson wasn't unfamiliar with. He couldn't hide every aspect of himself from the world as well as his friend could, it just wasn't as natural for him, and his best friend knew it better than anyone. And yet, years after learning just who Gregory House was, knowing even back then what a walking mind game he could be, James Wilson, for some unfathomable reason, was still happily there at his side. Why? Why, when Wilson's very nature dictated that he retain some sanity in removing the main worry in his life, did he so decidedly go against that self-preserving instinct to stick so closely to it? He would always come back for House, no matter how far they drifted apart, that was a given, that was his responsibility.

And that right there was Wilson's weak point.

They brought out a side in each other that made them practically co-dependent, a quirk in each of their personalities that, when aggravated ever so slightly, could see them go completely against the grain, shattering any ill-made assumptions others had made about their characters to fight tooth and nail for what they had.

The flip side to that observation was that both friends could inflict hurt on each other like no one else could, both having done exactly that at times, both quite aware of the profound relationship they had even if they very rarely voiced its complex magnitude.

To have the enormity of what had taken place tonight pierce right through the center of that, hurting Wilson so badly in a manner that, understandably, could see him completely withdraw into himself, that could see him completely withdraw from _House_… well, the repercussions could be potentially devastating for both of them. And so it was that Cuddy knew, with some certainty, that she would not be in the least surprised by any of House's, or Wilson's, actions tonight, or for the foreseeable future.

The one thing she could see happening quite easily, however, was House relapsing and going back onto the Vicodin thanks to a leg that was at the very least going to be aching for some time to come, and was, she suspected, doing so right now.

'Is your leg any better?'

House nodded quickly, despite the constant ache that still pummeled his thigh. For once though, his leg wasn't the primary source of the crushing dread weighing his chest down so heavily. He wasn't so immune to Wilson's psychology crap that he couldn't work out that his paining leg was most likely simply a manifestation of his fear, cold fear for his friend pulsing through him with every heartbeat as he contemplated the unfathomable journey that lay ahead of them, praying to a God he didn't believe in for _something_ of his and Wilson's relationship to be salvaged from the wreckage.

He was about to derogatively say something to that effect, probably concerning the unspoken truth that lay in the inanity of Wilson's constant psycho babble, when a faint noise stopped him, Cuddy anxiously taking the unnerved question that had formed on his parted lips right out of his mouth.

'What was that?'

House looked at her for a split, panicked second before he turned, half limping and half running back into the bedroom and towards the bathroom door, his heart nearly stopping when he heard that chilling noise again, much louder this time; a low, keening wail echoing hollowly from the bathroom, a hopeless sound of such anguished despair that the hairs on the back of House's neck stood on end.

_Wilson._

He couldn't give a crap about Wilson's privacy then, slamming into the door to barge straight in and over to his struggling friend, the bath water Wilson was sat in having taken on a watery, bloody hue as he scrubbed and scrubbed in a tormented frenzy at his now thoroughly excoriated thighs, still sobbing that harrowing sound with every inch of him still crawling disgustingly despite the blood he was horrifically drawing from his own skin, blood that he could see, _feel,_ but just couldn't stop for, not until he was _clean-_

'Wilson, no – _don't!_' panted House as he reached down to roughly pull Wilson's shaking hands from the water, ripping the sopping cloth from his fingers to fling it away somewhere before wrapping his arms tightly around Wilson's heaving chest in a restraining hold, trapping his wet arms under his own, that awful sound still resonating through the now near hysterical man as he gave it all he had to escape House's imprisoning grip, thrashing helplessly against the force that had seen him trapped against his will once already tonight – he was _not_ about to let that happen again.

House could do nothing but grit his teeth, feeling his burning eyes spill over and concentrating fully on holding onto his feral friend as he fell to his good leg at the side of the bath, grunting with the pain and only holding Wilson tighter still through the frantic fight he was trying to put up, his stricken sobs bouncing horribly off every wall as he grew slowly weaker.

It didn't take long for the exhausted man to finally give in and collapse into House's hold, curling into himself and clamping his mouth shut in an attempt to block the raw, guttural wails that were coming from the very depths of him, simply containing them to reverberate violently through his body anyway as he shook hard in House's arms, rocking in his torment and drowning in that terrorized feeling of disgusted self-loathing that had him now completely destitute from his own body.

'It's alright, just let it all out,' whispered House into his ear as he lessened his grip on Wilson to just hug him, closing his eyes as he felt Wilson instantly turn to bury his face into the warm darkness of his chest, giving in to just unleash those primitive, guttural screams that were all he had left now, muffled by House's chest as his hoarse voice resonated sickeningly through the Diagnostician, stealing the very breath of him.

Cuddy could only watch helplessly from the doorway, completely taken aback and wanting so much to run in there and give Wilson a hug herself but loathe to cause him any more distress than what he was already going through, able to see for herself that House was clearly the one Wilson needed here as she watched him press his lips to the top of their friend's head, mumbling a string of soothing words through the struggle that only Wilson could hear as his screams slowly began to die off into ravaged moans.

His torment was still evident even as House subtly retrieved the discarded wash cloth from the water to ever so gently start sponging some of the blood away from Wilson's face, softly shushing him and still uttering those comforting, indecipherable words as he worked, the tenderness with which he treated Wilson so genuine that Cuddy couldn't help but feel like she was intruding on something she shouldn't, silently leaving them be to make herself useful in the kitchen.

She had to look twice at the clock when she got there, not quite able to believe the time the hands where stuck at.

_03:32am._

She'd been here for over four hours, and yet it felt like only five minutes ago that she'd knocked on that front door, the night having passed in a horrible blur.

And as she stood in the kitchen now, suddenly freezing and taking in the dead of night stillness that shrouded the ill-fated living room, Cuddy still couldn't quite get her head around the sordid reason for her being here, her heart sinking when her eyes came to rest on the wasted Chinese takeout that hadn't even seen the light of day in the end. She could see where this night was meant to have gone for Wilson, turning round to spot the dirty dishes and mugs that had barely been touched still sat haphazardly in a sink full of greying, cold water, looking for all the world like they'd just been chucked in there out of pure frustration for the man he lived with.

Her smile at the knowledge that that was probably true was bittersweet, knowing now that what had once been a boys' night in watching crappy TV had horrifically morphed into something so appalling that it didn't seem real, her sigh shaken as she loaded bread into the toaster and switched the coffee maker on.

What was she going to say to everyone at work? Or more specifically, what the hell was she meant to tell House's team, both old and new, all of whom Wilson was closer to than the majority of his Oncology colleagues? For Cuddy, like everyone else at the hospital, knew the many layered dynamics of the Diagnostics team, the friendship between her, House and Wilson forming an almost three-way parenting of whichever fellows happened to be in their care at any one time, with House at the helm. And as much as House headed the team, guiding them on a daily basis, it couldn't be denied that without Wilson's and Cuddy's inevitable input to offer some level of normality and familiarity with common law abidance, the so called 'ducklings' could potentially come out the other side of their fellowships with varying degrees of Doctoring attitudes that were most certainly on the wrong side of healthy.

For his part, Wilson was the unassuming lynchpin that, in his unique relationship with House, very subtly held the team together, acting as the go-to guy next door for all of them with any issue that was remotely connected to his best friend, offering advice where needed on how to handle the perplexing Diagnostician, and there to sensitively pick up the pieces when House went just a little too far in testing both his fellows' and Cuddy's emotional, and ethical, limits.

Without Wilson… well, you didn't really have a fully functioning House either. Cuddy knew that what they'd be left with would be House minus the safety net he'd never realized was always there until it was suddenly whipped out from beneath him and his team, the reason for Wilson's inevitable sick leave that would unwillingly have to be taken surely one that would splinter through the makeshift little family, knowing all too well the respect and genuine affection that all of them, even Foreman in his grudging admiration for Wilson's House-handling skill, held for their endearing Head of Oncology.

'He needs Midazolam.'

'Christ, _idiot_,' hissed Cuddy breathlessly, having jumped out of her skin at the sudden, grave voice in her ear before closing her eyes briefly and opening them again to the now cool toast that had cheekily popped up some time ago while she'd been miles away, turning next to said idiot who stood quite innocently beside her, the incredulous look on House's face almost comical if it hadn't been for the obvious distress there.

'I know you haven't been a proper Doctor for some time now, but calling patients 'idiots' for needing sedation after going through a psychologically traumatic event just isn't the done thing anymore.'

'Shut up,' muttered Cuddy distractedly, not missing for a moment the pained waver in his voice despite his goading and already making her way over to the supplies bag to dig through its contents, finally discovering the coveted vials, needles and syringes packed in at the bottom amongst other meds she'd prescribed and picked up for Wilson on the off chance he might need them.

House slowly made his way over to Cuddy as she swiftly snapped the top off the vial of Midazolam, watching her prepare to draw up a minimal 2.5mg in 0.5mls of the clear liquid into the syringe, neither quite able to believe that they were about to inject their friend with a drug they'd each used hundreds of times on distressed patients, quite routinely. Patients, however, were one thing, their wellbeing obviously important to both of them but not in a thoroughly personal way. Wilson, on the other hand…

'You're Wilson's medical proxy,' pointed out Cuddy softly, the sentence more a statement of assuming fact than a question, her concentrating gaze flitting to House for a moment as he nodded his head in affirmation before going back to the drug she was drawing up in her hands.

'He's just… numb. Totally numb,' sighed House sullenly, scrubbing the palms of his hands into his tired eyes before taking the syringe that Cuddy passed to him and quickly checking it, not wanting to sedate his best friend in the least, no matter how small the dose, but knowing in his heart that the poor man wasn't going to get the sleep he so desperately needed otherwise.

House had left Wilson tucked up in his bed before coming out here to Cuddy, having dutifully done what he could for his listless friend to quickly finish up in the bathroom before taking his hand to lead a now practically stupefied Wilson through his own bed-clothes stripped bedroom and next door into House's. At that point, Wilson wasn't even making a noise anymore, remaining completely unresisting to House's will as he lay down on the cool mattress, curling up in the middle of the bed and hardly feeling the covers that House tucked in around him, hardly feeling anything at all but the harsh stinging of his self-harmed thighs through the thin material of his pajamas.

He barely noticed House leaving his side and coming back five minutes later with Cuddy in tow, their distant, somehow stifled voices seeming like they were miles away through the icy fog that Wilson had found himself swirling in, clouding his eyes and muting his ears to everything but the dull throb of his heart as it beat wearily on.

_He was cold… so, so cold…_

That was all Wilson could faintly comprehend, the quick pinch of the needle that seemed to come out of nowhere to suddenly puncture his arm a welcoming flash of light in the darkness, that spot in his neatly torn skin growing slowly warmer to finally begin to spread through his worn body, enveloping him entirely in a heavenly glow that he gladly sank in to, totally open now to the vile hiss that suddenly roared through his head, screaming a sentence that would haunt him forever more, its echoing memory now no less frightening than when it had first been spat at him a few hours ago…

'_Are you fucking_ _stupid?'_

_The flecks of still-warm saliva were repulsively spraying his cheek as the knife edge pressed harder into his bared throat, and he couldn't help sobbing now as he still struggled desperately against the calloused hand that yanked unforgivingly at his trousers and boxers, forcing them down past his knees, the panic choking in its hold as he felt himself going under, drowning in it-_

'_No, no, you c-can't… please – no, NO!'_

_And then he was screaming, fiery pain billowing mercilessly through him, excruciating pain that seemed to rip him from the inside out over and over again, the suffocating hand that slammed into his face to cover his mouth muffling any tortured plea that a neighbor might have some small, slim chance of hearing, the powerless tears that he could feel streaming down his bloodied cheeks seemingly never ending, his throat raw as he swallowed the waves of nausea amidst tortured cries that he just couldn't force past his lips…_

_He wished he were dead, even now, with the sudden presence of these memorable azure blue eyes that were swimming in front of him to break up the nightmare, piercing through the terror to pull him back from the brink-_

Wilson knew those eyes.

Even now, in this shattered, terrified, and surely drugged state, Wilson _knew_ those eyes. He knew their comforting depths, pleading to him like they always did, pleading with him now to please, just let go, just let go of the horror, just give in to the dizzying warmth and _sleep_… their message was clear:

_I need you to sleep._

_I need you to come back for me._

_I won't leave you._

He caught only a lasting glimpse of these familiar blue eyes that he suddenly realized were actually just inches from his own, not quite able to remember just who they belonged to, not quite able to remember _anything_, the tear-glazed fear, and dare he think it, guarded _love _that shone there causing a pang of something oddly reassuring to flash through him as he still tried in vain to mumble against the sedating effect of the Midazolam, feeling the warmth of the trembling hand that stroked his cheek and wanting so much to reach up to tightly hold whoever's hand it was, this familiar stranger's grief evident even in the roughened fingertips that were drifting ever so lightly down his cheek, gently lulling him off into the drugged haze as he finally let his world slowly, slowly fade to black, hanging onto one utterly grateful thought only as he floated away from the blue eyes before him, knowing they'd be there waiting for him when he came back:

_Thank you._


	6. I Wait For You

Just a short chapter from House's POV... have kinda gone

into shock after end of 'Body and Soul' and seeing promo

for 'The C-Word'... surely to God they can't do what it looks

like they're going to do? NOT TO WILSON! I couldn't bear

it... talk about heartbreaking... dreading the last few eps... xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>See the stone set in your eyes…<em>

_See the thorn twist in your side._

_I wait for you._

_Sleight of hand, and twist of fate…_

_On a bed of nails he makes me wait._

_And I wait, without you.'_

{Sarah Darling: With Or Without You}

The rain-spattered windowpane was pressed coldly against House's forehead as he stared impassively out into the dark street below, condensation misting the glass in front of him with every hot, angered breath he took, utterly hating this time of the night, the pressing, pre-dawn darkness always seeming that much lonelier in the stilled couple of hours before the inevitable sunrise as he pondered the very questions that had him so fucking _furious_, despite his outward show of simmering silence.

Was Wilson's attacker still awake, or was he sleeping soundly in his bed, without a care in the world?

Would Wilson's attacker even bother to think about the repercussions of his actions tonight, would he know just how many people would be affected by this one event?

Would Wilson's attacker even realize the sheer volume of patients and their families that ultimately relied on his innocent victim, this one man he'd shattered into a million pieces, leaving him physically and mentally incapable of providing both curative treatment and palliative care to those who meant so much to him for the foreseeable future?

Had Wilson's attacker ever had to comfort, intimately examine, bathe and fucking _sedate_ his own best friend all because some perverted fucking _bastard_ couldn't control his most basic, primitive urges?

Had Wilson's _rapist_ ever known what it was to be stripped of everything that made him _him_, to lose it all so that he had control over nothing, to be frightened like never before, feeling so totally isolated from his own body that he felt trapped in his own skin?

Because right now, and knowing damn well that he'd never be able to forget the unadulterated fear that had battled for dominance within Wilson's muddled eyes as he'd so gratefully succumbed to the Midazolam, House wanted nothing more than to rid this world of the filth that had caused his friend so much fucking _pain._

Because it _hurt_.

And it had hurt when, for the first time since he'd met Wilson, House had realized that his friend couldn't remember just exactly who he was, despite his subconscious leaning into House's touch as he'd lightly trailed his fingertips down Wilson's cheek from his bedside, those expressive, brown eyes that had become a comfortingly permanent fixture in House's life holding nothing but bewildered confusion as Wilson had sleepily gazed so trustingly up to the quite clearly perceived stranger beside him.

House knew it was just the effect of the Midazolam as it had slowly done its job in pulling Wilson into the land of sleep, leaving him with nothing but his gut instinct to rely on as he'd gone under at House's hand.

He _knew_ that.

But even so, those few minutes of Wilson not having the foggiest clue as to his best friend was had been more than enough for House, the recollection now as he absently watched some woman pulling her coat tighter around herself as she briskly walked the otherwise deserted street below sending a shiver up his spine that had nothing to do with the chilled night.

He only turned away from the window then to glance quickly across the dark room when he heard one of his bed's slumbering occupants shifting, his forehead tingling numbly from the sudden loss of the cold glass as he idly watched Cuddy snuggle up behind the still zonked Wilson, subconsciously wrapping her arm around his waist and settling there, comfortable once more in her practical spooning of the unaware Oncologist.

She'd ended up there after Wilson had successfully passed out, grabbing a quick shower whilst House had stayed with him before swapping with the Diagnostician so he too could go and gladly wash himself of the evidence of this night. When House had come back from showering and making doubly sure that the apartment was safely locked up, it had been to find Cuddy dozing on his bed behind Wilson, practically perched on the edge as she slept and dressed in the make do pajamas House had left out for her in the form of one of his own t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants, her dirtied clothes in a small pile on the floor next to the bed.

House hadn't had the heart to wake her, knowing she'd be mortified in the morning when she realized she'd spent the night sleeping in the same bed as two of her Department Heads, the potential for embellished gossip to run riot in PPTH _huge_.

Under any other circumstances, House wouldn't have been able to resist doing most of that embellishing himself, blowing up the rumors to make them a hell of a lot more than they were – it wouldn't take much really… one 'accidental' mention of the word 'threesome' in the presence of a keen ear and the infamous PPTH rumor mill would go into meltdown.

Instead, House had only been able to bring himself to smile tiredly to himself, jostling his boss from the edge of the mattress and closer in towards Wilson, before tucking them both in, feeling weirdly like some sort of freaky mother hen as he'd taken up his guarding post at the window, despite being thoroughly knackered himself.

Just why he'd thought standing there alone in the cold darkness would help, House didn't know, the whole horrible situation feeling strange to say the least, even more so now that he was observing his two closest friends unwittingly sleeping in a more intimate position than most married couples did, his troubled gaze lingering fondly on the peacefully sleeping features of his damaged best friend.

_Why had it happened?_

The painful thought flared suddenly from the very depths of him, rearing its ugly head to strike him like a physical blow to the chest, his breath catching in his throat with the paranoid onslaught that quickly followed.

_Had Wilson been raped by someone he knew?_

_How did they even know where he lived?_

_Had they followed him home?_

_Had they known he was in the apartment alone?_

_Had they planned it?_

_Had they been watching him for weeks, working out Wilson's routine, right down to the last detail?_

_What if they came back?_

_What if they did it again?_

_What if they did more than rape his best friend this time…_

_What if they went that one step further?_

_What if they killed him?_

The barrage of quite frankly terrifying thoughts instantly tore House's attention back to the window again, his searching eyes hungrily roaming every darkened corner of the world outside, delving into every murky alleyway, half hoping and half fearing that he'd see something, _anything_, that would somehow answer those burning questions.

_Was Wilson's rapist out there now, spinelessly hiding in the shadows?_

It was sickening to think, but if he was, House knew he would never find him, no matter how much he longed to rip his worthless little throat out.

And so it was that the fraught Diagnostician eventually found himself sighing bitterly as he gave up to finally limp to the bed and carefully climb in on Wilson's other side, his leg doing its usual nightly routine of absolutely killing him, the cramping muscle refusing to ease despite his hopeless kneading of it.

House froze in his administrations only when Wilson stirred next to him, the sandwiched Oncologist frowning slightly as he appeared to try and smother his face into the pillow he was currently sharing with his watchful best friend, his altered breaths wafting gently over House's cheek as he made these funny little noises.

And it was then that House realized the common term used to coin what Wilson was doing right now, knowing now why the man unwittingly had most women falling at his feet.

Because he was snuffling.

Actually _snuffling_.

House smirked – this was typical. He should have known Wilson was a _snuffler… _being the epitome of 'adorable' to 90% of the opposite sex didn't cease to be every night just because he went to sleep.

Saying that, there was a fine line between 'snuffling' and 'whimpering'… and right now, House was inclined to think that Wilson was progressively leaning more towards the latter.

'Hey, Wilson… Wilson, wake up,' whispered House, turning more onto his side to face his friend, taking Wilson's hand in his own to gently squeeze it.

'Wilson!'

'Wh..what?' mumbled Wilson groggily into their pillow, scrunching his nose as he looked up to sleepily blink at House.

'You okay?'

''M fine… go to sleep, House,' groaned Wilson quietly, not even noticing that his hand was clutched in House's and sounding completely like his usual exasperated self as he snuggled back down into the pillow to close his eyes again, having never really woken up properly in the first place.

And House was sure he most probably _did_ think he felt fine… he should do, the Midazolam wouldn't have worn off yet in its ability to artificially shield Wilson from the pain, wrapping him in a drugged cocoon to keep him safe from the raw memories of what he'd just gone through, masking the horror that he was incapable of escaping on his own.

But that was all drugs did… they _masked_.

House knew that better than anyone.

And the saddening proof of that lay before House now, the Diagnostician sighing knowingly as he gingerly released Wilson's hand to thumb away the single tear that had been trickling down Wilson's cheek since he'd sleepily answered his friend's initial query, a single tear that spoke volumes as to the true state of Wilson's mind.

He clearly wasn't fine at all.

And as House followed suit to finally close his eyes in an attempt to fall asleep, he couldn't help but know that tomorrow was going to be a long day.

A very long day indeed.


	7. Not As We

Hi everyone... just another thank you for all your lovely

reviews, they're much appreciated and do help to cheer

me up with all that is going on with our poor Wilson and

House at the mo in season 8 :( Enjoy this update, the

next one shouldn't be too long :D xxx

* * *

><p><em>'Day one, day one… start over again.<em>

_Step one, step one… I'm barely making sense._

_For now, I'm faking it… 'til I'm pseudo-making it._

_From scratch, begin again…_

_But this time I as I, and not as we.'_

{Alanis Morrisette: Not As We}

_This didn't feel real._

Sat in Cuddy's car as she drove him to House's apartment, his gaze unfocused as he stared unseeingly out of the open window, and with three cases full of some of his and House's meager possessions in the back, Wilson was surprised to faintly register that the world had adhered to that over-used cliché in appearing to simply carry on without him.

By contrast,_ his_ world had been violently shaken on its axis, his life stuck on juddering, vicious pause, and yet the lives of all these others just… went on.

Like normal.

_Without him._

And nothing whatsoever about that depressingly ongoing fact felt _real_.

Sickeningly happy, carefree couples strolling along hand in hand, children running and yelling incessantly as they played, heeled women and suited men flying in and out of coffee shops, time only for the cell phones glued permanently to their ears, bored teens slouching at street corners, impatient horns blaring from irate drivers in the heavy traffic, pointless music drifting quietly from the radio to break the subdued, wrought silence he and Cuddy had found themselves immersed in… whilst all these enviously, ordinary life-living people of New Jersey had sat at home last night, enjoying their evening, laughing with friends and family, arguing over control of the TV, making the most of life at its most normal, life at its _best…_ his world had halted right there at 10:11pm, never having been so openly vulnerable as to when he'd been abused and abruptly discarded on his own hard, cold floor; naked and his whole body hurting so fucking _much_, overwhelmed with fear, fear that had hardly lifted once he'd managed to close that door he should _never_ have fucking answered, the shame that had engulfed him still coursing through his veins even now, as hot as the blood that had pooled in his mouth, pooled all around him, creeping forth from his battered body to join the slick mess that covered him in all its sick glory, the liquid iron sliding bitterly down his throat, so much that he just couldn't stop gagging, and House's face was there suddenly, _thankfully_, swimming before him, his best friend so scared, helpless… so _guilty-_

'Wilson.'

Wilson flinched then at the uneasy utterance of Cuddy's voice, the hairs on the back of his neck stood horribly on end as he looked down to find her tiny hand attempting to grip the tense, trembling fist that was his own beneath it; the usual, grating sounds of the outside world rushing quickly back to him as he realized they'd come to a standstill in the heaving traffic, clammy and sweating now under the dusty glare of the midday sun.

He should have gone with House on his bike, his friend no doubt weaving easily through the congested streets at this point to make it to his apartment in record time, free of the constraints that came with traveling in cars.

Because Wilson had come to recognize that this car was stifling… it was boxing him in.

And he couldn't breathe.

_He couldn't breathe._

It took Cuddy a moment to realize what Wilson was doing as he suddenly ripped his hand from hers, breathlessly unclipping his seat belt and fumbling frantically with the handle to finally fling the door wide open, almost slamming it into the car next to them, her tormented friend practically falling from the car in his haste to just get out.

'No, Wilson – Wilson _don't!_ Come back!_ Wilson!_'

Wilson was already stumbling forth, his legs on autopilot as he hurtled forwards, vehemently hating these people who inadvertently blocked his way, shoving them roughly aside in his panic, Cuddy's voice fading away to merge with the background hum even as she yelled his name so desperately, feeling nothing but the ground that his feet pounded hard as he ran, destination unknown, gulping in great lung fulls of air, forcing the oxygen down his throat as his screaming mind focused on only one thought, able to think of nothing else but that one, forceful command:

Run…

_Run._

Fucking _RUN._

He couldn't have stopped for anyone at that point, not even House.

And it broke his heart.

-[H]-

House groaned quietly at the name that was flashing on his phone for the eleventh time since Wilson had decided to make a break for it, the damn thing vibrating insistently on the coffee table until he eventually snatched a hand out to answer it.

'_What?'_

'You know 'what' - has he called yet?'

'In the half hour since you last called? No,' replied House tersely, Cuddy's non-stop phone calls that she'd plagued him with all afternoon since arriving at 221B minus a certain Oncologist now positively doing his nut in, 'I remind you of our last conversation we had, and the one before that, and the one before that, and the one before that –_ I'll_ call _you_ when _he_ comes home. Capiche?'

Cuddy said nothing for a moment, her voice choked slightly when she finally did speak up.

'It's been nearly nine hours, House. Anything could have happened. _Anything._ God, if I'd just _caught_ him-'

'Cuddy, if you'd managed to catch him he wouldn't have thought twice about lashing out,' sighed House, heaving himself from the couch to limp to the darkening window, his exasperated voice now surprisingly forgiving given the fact that, ultimately, she'd failed to keep his best friend safe on the theoretically simple task of transferring him from A to B, 'This isn't your fault. By the sounds of it, he just wanted to get away, via whatever means – you couldn't have stopped him. None of us could.'

He wished he was lying, but House knew better than anyone the tendencies Wilson had to bottle up his problems, it came with the territory – work for years to become the Department Head of a specialty that was heart wrenching at the best of times, and you honed that particular personality quirk to become very, _very_ good at hiding your emotions. Hell, put that amount of effort in in the first place, and House would argue that that revealed an awful lot about a person's natural tendency to hide away. Wilson had simply developed and refined that instinct within his career to make it an outright _skill._ Because, of course, fail to do that, and he'd have become an emotional wreck, close to his patients but utterly useless to them given the fact that they're the ones who have to face the battle in the fight for their lives, not him.

Take this morning, for example – Wilson, out of the three of them, had been the one who'd seemed almost normal, willingly assenting to House's reticent suggestion of moving out into his apartment and calmly gathering some of his stuff in a suitcase to do just that. He'd been a little on the quiet side, of course he had after last night, but apart from the bruising to Wilson's face and the winces that came with every aching movement House was quite sure that others would never guess the horror he'd endured overnight.

And yet, for Wilson's two closest friends, in the cold light of day it had become more and more obvious to both House and Cuddy that he was simply going through the motions, functioning on numb autopilot to get through each passing hour. House could count on one hand the number of times that Wilson had been able to bring himself to look properly at him that morning, the guilt flaring horribly in his chest each time Wilson had managed to raise those tortured brown eyes to gaze sadly up at him, hopelessly ashamed and lost no matter what they were talking about, any faint smile he'd somehow mustered traveling no further than his lips.

So yes, hiding emotions was one thing… dealing with them, however, was another issue entirely, and one that Wilson, for all his daily psychoanalysis of House, had never been any good at doing. House only had to think back to glasses shattering antique mirrors to know that Wilson was as incapable of the rest of humanity in dealing with his emotions in some constructive manner.

And he only had to think of the hurt in those eyes to know that the emotional battlefield Wilson had innocently found himself caught in the middle of was pretty goddamn huge.

'Cuddy, you _know_ Wilson, he'd never admit it, but he's frightened. And angry. He'll be in some bar somewhere trying to drown himself in a sea of beer, and when he's done he'll either go back to the condo, come back here, or go over to you. Trust me, given Wilson's previous history, I'm guessing he'll end up here, most probably surfing home on a tidal wave of his own vomit after an all-day bender, with a trail blaze of broken antique mirrors left in his wake. I wouldn't expect anything less.'

'And you couldn't have realized all that this morning, _before_ he went AWOL this afternoon?'

'Huh - that's rich, coming from the woman who admittedly went and _lost_ our post-rape Head of Oncology in the first place,' retorted House sarkily, taking one more desperate glance of the unnervingly Wilson-free street before turning around to face the stillness of the darkening living room again, his anxiety and concern for Wilson hidden behind his usual blunt sarcasm and the continual rubbing of his aching thigh as much as Cuddy's was hidden behind panicked snapping.

'House, I _know…_ I'm sorry. I just… God - just… just call me or something when he's back, okay?'

'You know I will,' promised House quietly, his voice genuinely comforting for only a fleeting moment before carrying on in his usual manner, 'Wait, hang on…_hang on_… yep, definitely a déjà vu moment. God, doesn't it just like _totally_ freak you out when that happens?'

'You're an ass,' came Cuddy's resigned reply, the saddened smile evident in her voice even as she hung up before House could come back with some witty comment to her very Wilson-esque insult.

He carelessly lobbed the now silent phone onto the couch then, exhaling slowly and swallowing down the jittery panic that had been niggling at him all day, panic that had really only taken hold once he and Cuddy had visited all the usual haunts Wilson might have retreated to only to find each of them ominously absent of their quite clearly distraught friend.

They'd arrived back at 221B in defeated silence, whereupon Cuddy had proceeded to go into OCD overdrive with the cleaning of House's dust-ridden apartment, unable to just sit there doing nothing, neither of them barely saying a word for the couple of hours she'd spent distractedly scrubbing every surface, working around a decidedly stationary House who had taken to either brooding on the couch nursing an ever-present scotch, or standing lonely at the window, subconsciously massaging his thigh, his painfully lifeless phone clutched tightly in his hand as bright blue eyes constantly scanned the world outside for their dark brown counterparts.

He'd snapped at Cuddy in the end – regrettable, yes, but _God_ was she was grating on him, the fuss of it all as she'd vacuumed, polished, cleaned, tidied, arranged, plumped, sprayed, wiped… suffice to say, she'd gotten the message pretty quick, shakily asking to be informed of any updates on Wilson before leaving him to go back home to Lucas and Rachel, whereupon she'd proceeded to call him constantly throughout the day anyway.

And now, hours later, as House absorbed the unsettling vision of his gleaming apartment with distaste, the place reeking of a thorough, womanly clean, he couldn't help the surge of ungrateful annoyance that this was all just a tad… _wrong_.

Because the only person who cleaned his apartment and knew to leave his piano well alone, who didn't plump pillows, who cleaned but didn't _clean_ clean, who left just enough organized mess to mark the slovenly manliness on the place, who did it all just right was… well, _Wilson._

And he obviously just wanted to be left alone, wherever the hell he was.


	8. My Hands Are Holding You

Hi everyone, sorry about the wait, went into House/Wilson

shock with the last few eps on TV... can't believe what's in

store for them both in 5 months time :'( As a result this

chapter kind of became a bit of an emotional roller coaster...

hope you enjoy anyway! I wrote a lot of this before 'Holding

On' but after that ep and THAT scene in the car I'm kind of

thinking anything could happen with House and Wilson...

woohoo! xxx

* * *

><p><em>'Look at these hands, at my side… <em>

_They swallowed the grave of that night._

_When I drank the world's sin, so I could carry you in, _

_And give you life… I want to give you life._

_And I'll be by your side, wherever you fall,_

_In the dead of night, whenever you call,_

_And please don't fight, these hands that are holding you…_

_My hands are holding you.'_

{Tenth Avenue North: By Your Side}

The apartment was pitch black by the time House was awoken by the craved-for sound of a drunken stumble against his front door, the slight thud punctuated with mumbled curses jolting him from the monotony of helpless worry that had seen him uneasily drift off on the couch around an hour earlier, his latest scotch sat untouched on the coffee table his feet were currently resting upon.

The digital light of his watch informed him that it had gone midnight.

A good while ago, in fact.

And now, as he heaved himself up to limp quickly towards the door, banging the light on and inexplicably dreading what he knew would be waiting for him on the other side, House couldn't help the Wilson-aimed surge that unexpectedly flew through him, a simmering surge of… _resentment?_... anger?

Whatever the hell it was, the door nearly came off its hinges as House ripped it open, blue eyes blazing brightly as he took in the utter mess that was his taken aback best friend, the concern-rooted, fretful words savagely out of his mouth before he knew it:

'How many more clichés do we have to tick off your 'to do' list before you're done, Wilson? Because right now, almost _thirteen hours_ after you decided to do a runner, I could damn well _throttle_ you.'

Wilson said nothing; his shadowed face paling even more than it already was and his somewhat stunned eyes going that little bit wider as he stared dazedly at House before he suddenly heaved, retching and promptly chucking up at the feet of his obviously pissed off friend.

_Nice._

'Touché,' sighed House, sadly inspecting the back-splashed damage to his Nikes as Wilson moved only to lean his forehead against the cool wall of the dark hall way, eyes closed as he tried to breathe past the nauseating free fall that this wholly expected onset of intoxicated head spinning had sent him in to.

_Oh… God… he was going to be sick again-_

Wilson could only weakly protest at the strong hands that roughly grabbed him then, forcibly pulling him around the pool of vomit and into the apartment, wincing at the slam of the door behind him and his legs like lead as he stumbled forwards for what seemed like forever, finally finding himself shoved up against the remarkably impeccable kitchen sink, his head practically pushed down into the thing as he proceeded to hurl for a second time, House's instincts spot-on as usual in guessing that Wilson would never have made it to the bathroom in time.

For his part, House could only stand there, his leg killing him and his arm around Wilson's heaving waist as he did his best to steady his unknowingly swaying friend in keeping him propped upright at the now filthy sink, still furious at Wilson but so thoroughly relieved that he was here, that he was _safe_, that House didn't really know what the fuck to feel at this point.

The urge to just shake Wilson as hard as he could was so strong, the intense, stale stench of the inordinate amount of alcohol his usually stable friend had evidently consumed a stark reminder of the sheer stupidity he'd indulged in over the course of the day. Plus, he was practically dithering in his arms, cold as he was, and it didn't take a genius to work out that he'd eaten very little, if anything at all.

There was no doubt about it that the younger man was a fool for thinking anything remotely good could have come out of this.

But the urge to do what he could to fix him, to get his old Wilson back, was more than strong… it was overwhelming. That feeling of responsibility, that was _always_ there no matter how hard House tried to deny it vocally, that shone through anyway in the little, meaningful things he did for Wilson, was flaring particularly brightly now, no more so than when Wilson eventually managed to stop vomiting, rinsing his mouth quickly and practically slumped across the sink in his exhaustion, trying his best to breathe deeply in a bid to exercise at least some control over his aching stomach and shivering with both the self-induced chill and general neglect he'd subjected himself to.

He couldn't even muster the strength to shed the tears that glazed the destitute depths of his dark eyes.

'You're an idiot,' concluded House softly, placing Wilson's arm around his shoulders and keeping his own arm at Wilson's waist to gently steer him from the sink, gripping the counter top hard to support them both as he limped painfully towards the couch under the weight of Wilson's drink-addled body.

Wilson, it emerged, had other ideas.

'I don't need your he.. your _help_,' he muttered stubbornly, his breath thick with the sour stench of a multitude of beverages as he dug his heels in, trying to drag his arm back from House's shoulders before endeavoring to weakly wriggle out of House's grasp, failing quite spectacularly in trying to bat House away at the irritated glare his friend subjected him to.

'You want us both to go ass over tit? 'Cause the floor's where we're headed here, Wilson, if you carry on being a total _twat_. Christ, how the hell you managed to find your way home in one piece, I don't know.'

Wilson scowled, waiting until they were a few feet away from their destination before attempting to push House away again, successful this time as House allowed him to practically fall from his arms and collapse forwards onto the couch, groaning on impact with the pain that shuddered through his beaten body; the aching, heavy pain that echoed back to his ordeal the previous night numbed only slightly by the alcohol as he crawled messily to the end of the couch.

'Well, House, that's me all over isn't it? 'M like some sort of stupid.. stupid _homing pigeon_,' spat Wilson eventually, his embittered voice sharply undermining any affectionate subtext that could have been gleaned from that slightly slurred statement as he struggled to get comfortable, his own eyes vehemently empty as he finally locked on to those blue eyes that meant_ everything_ to him, those beautiful, vulnerable blue eyes that constantly brought him heartache in some form or other now wide with a kind of guilt-stricken fear for his next, sudden drink-fuelled truths that cut through House as easily as any knife could, Wilson's pent-up resentment, pent-up _grief_, for this sudden appalling plunge his life had taken boiling over all at once to blisteringly scald the person closest to him, sobering him up pretty quickly in the cruel process.

'M like a homing pigeon, hard-wired to.. to always find my way back to _you_, to go wherever _you_ need me to go, do whatever _you _need me to do, no matter what the personal cost-'

'Wilson-'

'_No,_ House. No matter what the personal cost, you know damn fucking well that I'll always come back for you, 'cause don't we both know that I'm just too… too hopelessly attracted to resist the.. the.. what was it? Oh yeah, the _shine_ of your neediness,' continued Wilson breathlessly, his shaken voice growing louder with every choked word as he drove mercilessly home to his friend just a fraction of the gut-wrenching pain that had swallowed him whole, that had nothing to do with any temporary physical infliction, that hurt so damn _much_ that he could hardly breathe.

'Well, d'you know something, House? I'm not just attracted to it – I'm.. I'm fucking _drowning_ in it. In you. In _everything_ that comes with being your best friend, acting as your conscience, draining me constantly with the _shit_ you throw at me every God damn day, giving you an inch at every opportunity and doing _nothing_ when you take a mile every time-'

'Wilson-'

'-knowing all the time that while my life continues to revolve around _you_, like it does every fucking minute of every fucking _day_, you'll do sweet fuck all to help me whenever the tables are turned, unless it serves some.. some _crappy_ selfish agenda, leaving me knowing that, actually, you_ don't_ care, because the constant fuck-ups you never fail to land at my doorstep _totally_ undermine any small action that might have made me think otherwise, and I.. I… I can't…'

'I didn't rape you, Wilson,' pointed out House quietly, carefully lowering himself onto the other end of the couch and taking advantage of Wilson's momentary pause to starkly pinpoint the unsurprising, blaming sentiment that he could sense was at the agonized core of his friend's desperate outpour, blame that Wilson obviously needed to assign to someone in his frantic yearning to claw back some sort of control, to claw back some sort of _normality_.

And who better, who _easier_, to take it out on than the person who loved you most, lashing out before the person who knew you better than you knew yourself could effortlessly slip past any carefully constructed defense in finding you at your most vulnerable, making the horrific reality you were trying so hard to escape exactly that… an _horrific_ reality.

House couldn't deny that he was the master of that particular trade.

Even so, years of experience spent doing just that didn't make the dawning fury on Wilson's face any less painful to bear witness to, nor his gasped comeback any less painful to hear, his targeted words dripping with the venom that, by rights, should have been aimed at someone else entirely, the accompanying guilt of which only served to spill the inevitable tears that trickled desolately down his cheeks, free-flowing now despite Wilson's furious swiping at them as he verbally hit House hard where he _knew_ it hurt, hating himself all the more as he yelled:

'You _didn't_ rape me in the same way you_ didn't _kill Amber!'

House blanched, feeling the color drain from his cheeks as he stared hard at Wilson, who looked as stunned as House felt at his enraged outburst, the groundless accusation that made total sense, and yet no sense at all, hanging unbearably in the air between them.

Because the horrible thing was, despite _knowing_ that Wilson was deliberately trying to hurt him before he could delve any deeper, despite _knowing_ that Wilson's reaction shouldn't have been all that unexpected, House knew exactly what Wilson meant. He was only human, after all. Had he not already gone through all this the night before, sat in Wilson's bathroom in the condo, feeling thoroughly sick at the prospect of the inevitable, angst-ridden conclusion that Wilson would have to arrive at some time or other?

Because if House had done as he'd promised last night, deciding to be there for Wilson for once and coming home from work when he was meant to… well, there was a good chance that Wilson wouldn't have been raped, let alone leaving him in the utterly broken state he was in now.

Just like if Amber hadn't been on that bus, following through with House's fateful decision to ask someone to pick him up and take him home… the simple fact was that Wilson wouldn't have suffered so tragically then either. He wouldn't have lost the woman he loved, and Amber's life wouldn't have been so needlessly wasted.

There was no doubt about it in House's mind that his needs, on both occasions, had formed a fateful link in the chain of events that had led to these two incidents he regretted most of all, excruciating regret that surely didn't even come close to the sheer anguish that Wilson had already endured, and would continue to have to endure for a long time to come.

'I.. I didn't… I shouldn't.. God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that,' whispered Wilson as he stared bewilderedly at House, leaning back into the couch and releasing a shaken breath that morphed very quickly into a suppressed sob as he hid his face in the welcome darkness of his hands, utterly loathing himself for placing any sort of real blame on House's shoulders when, truthfully, he wasn't to blame at all. Not for Amber's death, and most certainly not for the actions of the sick bastard who'd left him like this in the first place.

The silence could have gone on forever if House hadn't decided to end it, doing what he couldn't help and pushing his friend ever closer towards breaking point, that breaking point that he'd once tried so hard to avoid reaching with Wilson now the only place he knew this could go if they were to ever get past this.

He was terrified.

'We both know it would have been different if Amber hadn't come to pick me up that night,' offered House softly, his words catching dryly in his throat as he guiltily watched Wilson trying so, so hard to hold everything at bay from behind trembling hands at the other end of the couch, sensing the nearing of Wilson's inevitable collapse and choosing to difficultly voice the mutual thought that had been at the core of his friend's unraveling tonight, speaking a glaring truth that was so simple in hindsight, and yet so painfully true, because it needed to be said.

'And if I'd just come home on time last night, like I said I would… well, things might have been different then too. A lot different. There's no way around it – I stayed last night for me, for the puzzle, not for the patient. She could have waited till morning. If I'd known what would happen, what _was_ happening, at home while I was just… well, you know I wouldn't have stayed there. I'm sorry, Wilson.'

Wilson froze, barely even feeling his hands slip as they slid limply to his lap.

Anger, he could have taken. House yelling something unforgiveable in rebuke, vehemently denying his part in this, harping on about the necessity of him staying late at work last night, like he usually did, thereby unwittingly illustrating his all-consuming guilt for not being there, that was _crushing_ him, Wilson could have handled.

And as fucked up as he knew that was, as fucked up as he knew_ he_ was, Wilson would have taken some strange comfort in the knowledge that he was always headed for what happened last night, that there was a _reason_ for it all, like there was for everything, that there wouldn't have been any chance of House preventing anything anyway because he was never going to stick by his word and come home on time, because he always ended up having to stay in work for some patient's life that hung in the balance.

But… _this?_

Because what House was essentially telling him here, with his usual brutal honesty, was that, actually, the critical event that had utterly broken Wilson, that now unwillingly defined him above all else, that would surely haunt him for the rest of his hollow life, didn't even have that gloriously affirmative, almost tangible attribute otherwise known as _fate_.

His patient could have waited till morning… there had been no real purpose for him staying other than the fucking _puzzle_.

A puzzle that didn't even have life or death odds on it.

What House was telling him here, was that, actually, Wilson's rape wasn't always going to happen, it wasn't unavoidable… it could so easily have gone the other way.

What House was making starkly clear here was that Wilson, as chance would have it, had simply been in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Both of them had been.

_Again._

Because the simple fact was that life had dealt him some pretty vicious blows, the worst of which he'd thought was losing Amber under such similarly senseless circumstances, her life a needless loss that had utterly shattered him.

But what had happened last night… that was something else entirely different. Wilson just couldn't envision ever being that relatively normal man he'd been two days ago, he couldn't imagine ever being able to wake up without thinking of how much he'd been robbed of, constantly aching for his old life, that now retrospectively simple life that had just ceased to be at 10:11pm last night; anything Wilson had ever known, ever dared to take for granted as being _him_, being _home_, from the assumed, inherent awareness of his own state of mind and body to the indomitable shelter that he found nowhere but within this stupid, screwed up friendship with Gregory House, having suddenly just dropped out from beneath him, without warning, to leave him falling helplessly with nothing and no one to catch him.

And he'd been left like that, detached from _everything_, by pure chance? The chain of events leading up to last night simply a collection of stupid chances that had fallen like dominoes to lead his rapist right to his front door? That last chance of any sort of defense, that last link in the damned chain, crumbling miserably with House's no-show? Consequently left like this, ultimately, for the inanely simple reason of being in the wrong place, at the wrong fucking _time? _His life decidedly over on the fucking _whim_ of someone who had simply come out of the life lottery holding a winning ticket, giving them a free pass to choose him, out of billions of people that roamed this earth, to so totally _destroy?_

No.

_No._

He couldn't do this.

'You should have had your meds hours ago,' muttered House suddenly, unable to stand Wilson's stunned silence any longer and guiltily glad of having some reasonable excuse to be helpful and leave Wilson for a moment of reprieve as he pushed himself up to limp into the kitchen, grabbing the Ibuprofen and the Tylenol as well as the various prophylactics before returning a minute or so later with the containers of pills and a pint of water to put them on the coffee table in front of Wilson, his light tone masking the fear that laced every word.

It was a tone that Wilson knew all too well, one that he had no trouble reflexively seeing straight through, even now.

'There. Pop them and drink that. You'll still have a bitch of a hangover tomorrow, but at least you'll be able to sleep pain-free. Fail that and I could just rustle you up a Vicodin flavor sleeping-remedy... I'm pretty sure there'll be one or two pills lying around here that escaped the mass clear out.'

Wilson didn't even bothering registering his usual reproachful response to that, avoiding House's uneasy gaze and simply swallowing the painkillers together as instructed before reaching for the prophylactics, his unsteady hand slowing at the last second as he tentatively wrapped his fingers around one of the little brown bottles, the detested pills that shook within signifying his best chance of staving off a multitude of sexually transmitted infections, including the one that was scaring him beyond all else, his own body thoroughly repulsing him with every breath he took.

It was a feeling that he knew, with unbearable certainty, wouldn't be leaving him anytime soon.

'I _hate_ this.'

Wilson's voice was barely audible, so heartbreakingly small, and yet House couldn't miss the blatant animosity that permeated every defeated syllable of the gritted statement, that had Wilson so overwrought as his grip tightened evermore on the bottle, those three words truly illustrating to House, more than any yelled obscenity, just how beyond traumatized his friend actually was here.

'I know,' said House calmly, feeling totally useless when Wilson instantly snapped his eyes from the pills to him then, his expression such a frenzied mix of astonishment and aversion that House, where it mattered most of all, realized he couldn't even begin to fathom how his best friend was feeling.

He could read his patients like a book, whip a diagnosis out of thin air on the basis of a little, white lie that every patient told in some form or other, make life and death decisions that could make or break a patient, like _that._

But the brown eyes that held him now, the vulnerably shattered windows to the torn soul of this man before him, this man who meant the world to him… well, House, appallingly, didn't know where to begin.

And Wilson knew it.

'You don't _know_,' laughed Wilson derisively, the disbelief emanating from him in harsh waves as he stared incredulously at House, his already tearful eyes filling once more at this token crap House was spouting, crap that sounded so false in comparison to the blur of raw memories that were just merciless in their constant replay, killing him over and over again.

'You can't _know_. I don't want you to ever have to fucking _know_. I don't want you to have to live your life flinching at every stupid knock, every _noise_, you hear, jumping in fright when some _dick_ of a bartender, some _dick_ who's just doing his job, accidentally brushes his arm against yours to get your latest empty glass, your skin crawling long after he's gone, crawling like the rest of your body has been for what seems like forever, making you feel _sick_ constantly, the sm.. the _smell_ of the night that ruined your life always lingering, never fading away, the air you breathe saturated with that_ revolting_ scent of the man who just.. just _took_ whatever he wanted, wh.. who beat you to the floor, trapping you there, _choking_ you as he.. as he.. _climbed_ on top of you, reaching d..down and.. and… oh, G.. _God…'_

Wilson was crying now, the pills falling forgotten from his grasp to skittle across the floor as he hid behind his ever-trembling hands that flew once more to his ashen face, feeling every searing, violating touch of his attacker as he shamefully relived the worst nine minutes of his life once more, drowning in the white hot pain he'd endured that was like nothing he'd ever felt before, humiliated pain that still overcame him in heavy waves when he least expected it, pain that now had him sobbing so hard that it _hurt_, God, it hurt so _much_… pain that only ebbed slightly when he unexpectedly felt the strong arms of his friend suddenly surrounding him, carefully wrapping him to his chest, Wilson's bristling instinct to push House away, to push _everyone_ away, quashed wholly by the startling relief that flooded so soothingly through him in that instant; this warranted embrace, like the night before, saying everything that words would never be capable of expressing as Wilson's world suddenly, thankfully, became House.

House didn't know how long he held Wilson there for, forcing this feeling of comforting security onto him in a desperate bid to counteract, to _obliterate_, everything he'd just tearfully revealed to House, to make him see that he wasn't alone in this, that he would _never_ be alone, the passing of time measured only in the lessening shakes that ran insistently through Wilson's cold body as he slowly relaxed against House; his wracking sobs that seemed to echo through the apartment, that tore through the dead of night stillness, that tore through _House_, eventually dying down to the occasional shuddering intake of breath as his exhausted body slackened in House's embrace, Wilson's damp cheek coming to rest at the crook of his friend's neck as he stared sleepily at the wall opposite, utterly exhausted.

'You would have stopped him,' he whispered after a minute or so, as suddenly certain now of the truth of those five words as he was of any cancer diagnosis he'd ever made, the sheer conviction behind Wilson's fragile words flooring House as he looked down to his friend, this boy wonder Head of Oncology who was a pillar of strength to every one of his patients and their families, to colleagues and friends, to _him_, never having felt as breakable as he did then, House's hold tightening just that little bit more around Wilson as he muttered his fervent reply:

'Yeah. And I won't let him hurt you again. I give you my word.'

Wilson nodded, finally giving in to let his eyes drift shut as House pulled the blanket from the back of the couch to tuck around them, peaceful at last with this unanticipated sanctuary he'd found within his friend's arms, this sanctuary that he'd been unknowingly searching for all day, this sanctuary that he'd thought he'd find within strange people and bars, within pint after numbing pint… this sanctuary that he'd unwittingly run from this morning, that had been here all along, just waiting for him to come back.


	9. Need

A huge thank you to each and every one of

you who have read this fic, and if you've

reviewed then I love you to bits! A couple of

answers for my lovely reviewers: I use single

quotation marks just coz that's what I'm used

to - most books I've read use them for speech.

And a special mention here for 'Romanse', who

prompted the ending for this chapter with her

fab review! Thanks again hun! :D xxx

(docZo: I've made that alteration, hope it reads

better now, thanks for the concrit :D xxx)

* * *

><p>'<em>Can I feel anymore?<em>

_Lie to me… I'm fading._

_I can't drop you…_

_Tell me, I don't need you, oh…'_

{Hanah Pestle: Need}

Acting as your best friend's matrass during what was quite possibly the most traumatic time of his life really wasn't quite all it was cracked up to be.

That was House's initial reaction when he was unexpectedly yanked from the land of sleep by the delightful cramp that decided to twist ruthlessly through his disfigured thigh in that moment, his right hand flying from its spot where it had been drifting idly at the floor to hastily grind into the constricting muscle, the constricting muscle that was obviously his leg's clear protest at sleeping on an old couch for the night.

Well, maybe not so much a protest at the couch but rather at his surely hung-over BFF who's deadweight was now unwittingly sprawled flat out across House's stomach, Wilson's drool-happy cheek having come to rest at House's now partially damp chest as the night had wore on into an overcast morning, his left arm still hanging at the floor where House's hand had just been, the other now presumably numb given that House could feel it tucked snugly beneath his back. Hell, even the blanket House had pulled around them only mere hours was now seemingly twisted in between them somewhere, most probably within the tangle of their entwined legs at the other end of the couch.

House could guess, with surprising ease, what they must look like to any naïve onlooker.

_Happy. _(Very much so.)

_Gay. _(Clearly.)

_Drunks. _(Surely.)

And in that order too.

The appalling reality couldn't have been more different, his leg as it went into an excruciating, inevitable spasm acting as a stark reminder of that fact, the pain that ripped through his thigh doing its usual in never failing to steal the breath of him with an intensity that he never got used to.

'_Fuck,_' hissed House, really not wanting to kick-start Wilson into the colossal hangover he was inevitably going to awaken to, but unable to help his leg falling heavily from the couch as he grappled uselessly at his contorting thigh, involuntarily gripping Wilson's stale shirt in his left hand that was still slung across his friend's back in a loose, yet subconsciously protective hold, the same shielding position House had held him in all night; his grip growing white knuckled with the pain that seemed to ricochet through every wrought fiber of his leg, his back arching involuntarily upwards with the pained cry that finally escaped him.

'House, wha' the… wha's'matter?' groaned Wilson sleepily as he was unwillingly nudged awake, stirring to blink and take a few disorientated moments to groggily register that not only did he feel like he was teetering on the brink of death with a head that was surely going to split in two, but that he also appeared to have fallen asleep on his best friend, his cheek now uncomfortably, stickily damp due to the fact that he'd drooled on said best friend's t-shirt.

And yet none of that came close to distracting him from the constant ache that had settled heavily in his chest, pain that was the culmination of the inherent shame that coursed so hotly, so incessantly, through his veins, utterly crushing him in its fiery wake, and God, it hurt.

_It hurt._

Even so, it took only one bewildered glance up to House's sweat glazed face to realize the obvious, the suffering that was etched into every distressed feature, pain that had rendered House silently hostage as he panted through gritted teeth from behind tightly squeezed shut eyes, fuelling Wilson to scramble backwards until he'd shifted every ounce of his weight from the Diagnostician and getting himself sat up properly with House's good leg behind him, before reaching down and heaving House's ravaged leg up to lie across his lap, much to his friend's chagrin.

'OW- _Wilson!_' yelped House frantically, barely capable of noticing his delicate friend's nauseous wince as he instinctively reached forwards to pull his cramping leg back again, only to have Wilson slap his hand away before he started to forcefully knead the heel of his own hand into the twisting contours of damaged muscle through House's jeans, taking a few deep breaths past the nauseous swell of muggy head-spinning before he spoke, his tone jadedly lecturing.

'House, shut up. And try to relax. I can't believe you slept on the couch – you've got an empty bed through there, why the hell didn't you use it?'

'It's called being a _friend_, idiot,' snapped back House irately, shooting Wilson a pained glare at this newfound density before giving in to the queasy Oncologist's determined administrations and letting his head fall back to the arm of the couch, forcing himself to breathe slowly and with one arm slung across his closed eyes as he tried to do as his friend had instructed and relax.

It turned out, as expected, to be easier said than done.

'Well, you didn't have to stay with me all night,' said Wilson quietly after a while, watching House carefully as he started to work away a particularly tight knot in the quivering muscle, 'I would've been okay.'

House snorted from behind his arm.

'Oh yeah, after a thirteen-hour bender? I don't – _ow_ – I don't think so. Someone had to – ow, _Jesus_…someone had to make sure you didn't choke on your own- _ahh_ – your own vom- ah, okay, ow, _OW_ – Wilson, stop, _stop-'_

Wilson had already stopped when House suddenly snatched out at his upper arm to grip it tightly, the hung-over Oncologist holding House's pleading gaze for a long moment, before breaking away to turn his attention back to cautiously massaging House's slowly loosening thigh with just his fingertips now, House's restraining grip lessening once more with his cautious compliance to this compromise as he settled back down again, his eyes trained on the weary man who had come to be currently sat between his legs.

_Wilson was a wreck._

That was the instant conclusion House came to as he lay there, the most vulnerable part of him totally at the mercy of Wilson's touch, the younger man unwittingly looking so incredibly lost as he focused wholly on the all too familiar task of easing House's pain.

And as he studied Wilson, House couldn't help but inherently know that there was no one else he could allow to do this to him, no one else he would allow to partake in this strange little dance of mutual guilt-lifting, no one else he would allow himself to end up in this state for. He couldn't help but ponder a startling thought that struck him every so often, one that he hardly ever voiced but rather took for granted on an almost daily basis:

He had everything he needed right here.

They both did.

And that would never change for either of them.

'I'm sorry,' apologized Wilson softly after a good few minutes of steadily kneading House's leg into submission, his cheek feeling like it was burning now under the continual scrutiny of his best friend's watchful gaze and both men quite suddenly aware that Wilson's apology wasn't confined to just causing House the wholly necessary pain previously.

'Yeah, well… I don't blame you,' conceded House quietly, sitting up to experimentally tug his now considerably less aching leg from Wilson's lap to the floor before cracking open the vial of Ibuprofen to dry swallow two pills, not missing for a second the newfound, inherent edginess of his best friend as Wilson uncharacteristically occupied his suddenly empty hands by nervously picking at the non-existent dry skin around his left thumb nail, seemingly immersed in the task.

And in that one, quite normal-seeming gesture that inflicted the majority of the human race at some time or other, House gleaned his friend's terror as easily as any endless scream could have conveyed.

Because he was _too_ immersed in picking at dry skin that didn't exist.

Most wouldn't have noticed. Those who didn't know Wilson inside out, who didn't analyze him at every opportunity, who didn't fret and snipe at the world when something was amiss with him wouldn't have realized that anything was wrong. House wasn't sure if Wilson himself was even aware of the momentary shudders that still shook him every now and then, as vice-like now as they had been when he'd held the decimated Oncologist in his arms the night before last, the pair of them lying amidst the vile remnants of the carnage that had unfolded to claim his friend in all his entirety.

Fortunately, House knew better.

'I don't blame you, but Wilson – take me with you the next time you decide to go AWOL, okay? It's no fun on your own.'

_And I'll know you're safe. _

The sentiment went unspoken, but Wilson knew it was there.

Even now, as he tried in vain to stop the waves of revolted nausea washing through him, the bitter, tangy scent of his attack permeating the air around them, like it had been for what seemed like forever now, silently forcing its way down his nostrils, down his throat, _suffocating_ him… even then, he knew it was there.

How could it not be?

'Of course, if taking on the twats of New Jersey on your own means you can get to second base with me on a more regular basis, then be my guest,' offered House, grinning as he flexed his leg that was now mostly back to its usual dull ache thanks to Wilson's seemingly magic hands.

Wilson managed only a small smile at that quip before he felt its inevitable slip, utterly mortified as bewildered tears welled suddenly in his dark eyes, tears that he coldly realized had been there since the moment he'd awoken, waiting patiently on permanent standby to strike without warning once the primary concern of the House-welfare meter within him had been suitably pacified.

It was a default feeling, a brand new default setting, that was just soul destroying.

It certainly succeeded in wiping any traces of humor from House's face.

'I could kill him, House,' whispered Wilson hollowly, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes to any slim possibility of judgment that could find its way into House's saddened stare, the frank truth of those four words scaring Wilson far more than anything the past forty eight hours had brought him, his desolate voice sounding like a stranger's to his own ears.

Even his own body seemed to be repulsed at his words, words that just weren't natural for a man who felt lingering guilt when he accidentally stood on a snail, or killed a fly, or didn't get a spoonful of syrup or jelly to a worn out bee in time to give it enough energy to save itself, his heart flinching in a flash of pain across his chest at the terrifying realization that Wilson had never spoken a truer, more violent word in his life.

_He could kill the man who had left him like this._

_He could happily seek him out, wrap his shaking hands around his neck and squeeze as hard as he could until he was stone, cold dead._

House said nothing, knowing better than to try and contradict Wilson at this point in any way and uncurling his good leg from behind the defeated Oncologist to lean down and grab the forgotten prophylactics that had fallen from Wilson's grasp a few hours ago, opening the vial and four others to gather the concoction of prophylactics and painkillers that stood as their only chance of getting through this ordeal in one piece, this daily routine of Wilson popping a small handful of pills signifying life as they knew it for the next few weeks.

'Here,' murmured House, taking Wilson's free hand from his lap to gently uncurl his clenched fist and press the tablets into his palm before closing his fingers over them again, both of House's hands lingering to tightly cover Wilson's until he could bring himself to look up at him again, deep brown pools captured by equally bright blue orbs.

'Please don't let him win, Wilson. Do you hear me? Don't you _dare_ let him win.'

_What if he already has?_

It was a frightening thought that each of them could clearly decipher in the anxious depths of the other's gaze, a flash of burning doubt that questioned whether life ever really _could _make it back to normal after this.

What if this was it? What if this was just the _new_ normal, crappy as it was?

They'd just have to hope they got used to it.

Wilson would just have to hope he could get used to feeling like a spare part in his own life, cheated and utterly forgotten about as his life rolled slowly onwards without him.

House could only hope that Wilson would realize he was there, that he'd _always_ be there, waiting for him at every stop when life decided to rush on anyway.

They'd get left behind together, if need be.

'Go soak your leg before it cramps up again,' sighed Wilson eventually, swiftly pulling his hand from both of House's to down the pills within, swallowing them all at once with a swig of the stale water that still sat on the coffee table in front of them, effectively dismissing House before this conversation could go any further.

And if House wasn't sure he'd been dismissed then, he sure as hell was when Wilson slumped back into the couch to close his eyes to everything again, blocking the world out and looking more than a little pale with the nauseous hangover that finally had his full attention now, allowing him to gladly wallow in it.

'Well, make sure you check in with the Mothership to let her know you're home safe,' instructed House tersely as he obligingly eased himself from the couch, chucking his phone into Wilson's lap and heading for the bathroom, calling his last instructions over his shoulder as he went, 'And if you're gonna hurl then use the kitchen sink – as much as I love you, sweetcheeks, it's just too early in the morning to watch you sick up right in front of me. Oh, and Wilson?'

'Hmm?'

'Shout if you need me. Just don't go running off like you did yesterday.'

A surprised Wilson couldn't help looking over to him then at this genuinely uttered request, catching only a fleeting glimpse of his friend's retreating back as House limped into the bathroom, the click of the closing door signifying the first time that Wilson had been alone, in a place where he felt completely safe, since he'd been attacked.

_Yeah… 'safe' like you were last time. 'Safe' until he knocks on the door again, and you're stupid enough to answer it. It's happened once, it could happen again, there's nothing to stop him, nothing to stop him finding you here, in work, anywhere really-_

Wilson swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, willing the stupid voice away, willing his head to stop spinning with every possibility, to stop delving into the darkest recesses of his mind and retrieving every tortured imagining that he inflicted upon himself.

_Calm down._

_You _have_ to calm down!_

Even the voice inside his head was dripping with panic now, despite the well-meaning instruction, his heart pounding as he felt that flash of pain again, as he felt the horribly familiar tightening at the center of his chest, slowly, slowly creeping outwards like it did last time, strangling the breath from his lungs. He knew what was coming, he knew he couldn't stop it, his addled mind casting back to the night before last to find Cuddy's voice again, that voice of reason that had sliced through the terror and pulled him back just in time:

_Wilson, it's me. It's _me._ You're having a panic attack. You need to try and calm down, alright? _Calm down.

_I can't._

That was the simple truth of it. He tried to speak, tried to shout out like House had said to, tried to say _anything_, and couldn't even whisper a single word past the ragged wheezing his body had pulled him in to, as unforgiving now in every way as it had been last time, only realizing now that he was on his hands and knees on the floor, and when the fuck _that_ had happened he didn't know, he didn't care, he didn't have _time_ to care, because he couldn't breathe, he _couldn't breathe_-

House.

_House._

Wilson was already stumbling to his feet, his body on autopilot as he half ran, half fell, down the hallway towards the bathroom, able to think of nothing now but his dysfunctional, rude, obnoxious, brilliant friend on the other side of that door, his hands shaking as he wrenched at the handle to tumble forwards into the thankfully unlocked bathroom.

A luckily still-dressed House didn't get the chance to indignantly berate Wilson for bursting into the bathroom unannounced, turning around from the newly filled tub just in time to catch his rasping best friend in his arms, the gut-wrenching sight of the tears that streamed down Wilson's cheeks as he struggled for breath, his brown eyes huge with fear as he silently pleaded with House to _do something_, all House needed to see to know what was going on here.

'Copy my breathing,' he instructed calmly, firmly taking hold of Wilson's hands that were grappling frantically at the front of House's t-shirt to steer him to the toilet seat, lowering him down so he could kneel next to him, their gazes locked as House guided him through it.

'Breathe in… and out. Remember, in through your nose… and out through your mouth… in… and out…'

House didn't even realize he was doing it, gently rubbing his thumbs in time to their breathing over the back of Wilson's hands that he still had clutched in his own, the comforting sensation providing the much needed physical distraction to slowly begin to unwind Wilson as he focused on House's earnest words, his breathing soon regulating enough after a few minutes to allow the sobs that had been steadily building to suddenly tumble forth at the first opportunity.

'Hey, come on now,' soothed House, dropping Wilson's hands to gently bring his head down to his shoulder instead, Wilson's body having become so familiar over the past couple of days that he seemed to just naturally mold to House's now, his arms that he wrapped tightly around the Diagnostician shaking as he buried his face in the crook of House's neck, peeking tearfully over his shoulder.

'What brought that on then, Mr. Well-Adjusted?'

Wilson shook his head, his hair tickling House's neck… he didn't know.

Or he was too embarrassed to admit that he'd scared himself stupid as soon as he was on his own.

'I think you do know,' countered House softly, 'And we both know we can't carry on like that. I can't stay with you twenty four hours a day. I think… look, I know I haven't pushed this before now, and I know you'd rather just bury your head, but you need to get him behind bars, Wilson. You need to press charges, before he does this to anyone else and you drive yourself insane with fright.'

Wilson sighed shakily, closing his eyes for a brief moment at the dread that swelled within him at the very thought of having to relive every mortifying detail again, but knowing too that every one of House's words rang true.

He couldn't go on feeling like this, reduced to this shivering mess every time House left the room for more than three minutes.

He couldn't go on _waiting_, waiting for his rapist to come and find him again for round two, waiting for him to knock on that front door and decimate him all over again when House wasn't there.

And if House _was_ there… well, in all honesty, it probably wouldn't take much to overpower a cripple, would it? One well-aimed blow to House's thigh, and he'd be a goner.

In years to come, a happy, contented Wilson would look back on this pivotal moment in his life and realize that that last thought, and that last thought alone, was the single reason that he gave the answer he did, his almost pathological need to protect House flaring more intensely than any other feeling that coursed through him just then; his voice barely more than a whisper as he spoke one word that House had never been more grateful to hear:

'Okay.'

In years to come, a happy, contented House would look back on this pivotal moment in Wilson's life and realize that maybe, just maybe, this man he was holding so tightly in his arms was perhaps the strongest person he'd ever had the fortune of not only meeting, but of being able to call his best friend.


	10. Been Standing Here For Days, And Days

Hi all, just to apologise for the long wait -

I've been on my hols for the past couple of

weeks hence me only just updating. Thanks

again to those who follow this fic, especially

all of you who have taken the time to review.

I love each and every one of your reviews, they

keep me motivated! Haha, thanks again :D xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>When the tears fall away, and there's no conversation.<em>

_There's nothing left to break, that's not already broken._

_You're staring into space, and every inch of silence._

_Been standing here for days, and days…'_

{Take That: Said It All}

Cuddy didn't have a clue what time it was when she was woken suddenly by the shrill ring of her cell, registering in the anxious time it took for her to locate her phone on the living room floor that not only had she fallen asleep on the couch waiting for House to call the night before, but that she'd slept right through until early morning, if the overcast light that streamed weakly into her living room was anything to go by.

And if House was only just ringing now, well… well, quite frankly, she couldn't help but panic with the endless, progressively worse imaginings of what could have happened to Wilson, feeling utterly sick as she glanced at the screen, her stomach churning when she saw House's name flashing there.

She answered it.

And almost vomited with sheer relief at the tired 'Hey, it's me' that resonated down the line, Wilson's shattered, entirely unexpected voice a sound that she'd never been so glad to hear in her whole life, her relief spilling over into anxious anger before she'd had time to properly censor her thoughts as she practically yelled them into her phone:

'God, you _idiot_, I thought you were _dead!_ Where the _hell_ have you been, you stupid, _stupid_ man!'

'I know, I'm sorry – I got back a few hours ago-'

'A few hours ago? _A few hours ago?_' She was practically shrieking now, wondering only for a brief moment if she'd woken Rachel or Lucas before she ploughed on in her panicked outburst, 'And one of you couldn't bloody well _ring me?'_

'I, er, I didn't really… I couldn't-'

'Listen, mister, I don't care _what_ the hell happens, to_ any_ of us – just don't you ever, _ever_, do that again! Do you hear me, James Wilson?'

A surprised silence.

'_Wilson?'_

'Lisa, I'd have to be deaf not to hear you.'

And that's all it had taken to slowly unleash the almost hysterical giggles that had been steadily building, stricken giggles that proceeded to morph very quickly into uncontrollable, thoroughly relieved crying, Wilson's very Housian retort making so real the fact that he was actually home, safe and sound at long last.

She was vaguely aware of Wilson's flustered voice on the other end, clearly growing evermore bewildered at the crazy woman he'd managed to set off into a blubbering frenzy.

'God, Wilson, I'm sorry,' managed Cuddy eventually, wiping furiously at the tears that had escaped her, already moving to get ready to go over, 'Just… look, just let me get showered and dressed and I'll be over as soon as I can, okay?'

'You don't have to, you know,' said Wilson softly, guilt etched into every one of his words, 'I've put you through enough already, and you've got Rachel to think of-'

'She's fine, Lucas will look after her,' interrupted Cuddy, pausing where she was in the doorframe to just lean against it for a welcome moment and take a deep, steadying breath before she carried on, 'you need me more right now. You both do. Now just let me come over and look after you for a bit, just for the morning. It's the least I can do. Please, Wilson.'

He didn't answer for a moment, the emotion in his humiliated voice when he finally did speak bringing a lump to her throat.

'Alright. And Lisa… thanks. You know, for… well, everything really. And I really am sorry.'

'I know you are. And you don't need to thank me, I'm your friend. I'll always be there, you know that.'

Wilson obviously couldn't bring himself to respond to that, Cuddy hearing only what sounded like a shuddered sigh that seemed to border on a suppressed sob, before frowning confusedly with the sudden, somewhat muffled, protest that preempted a typically inappropriate House practically cheering down the line at her.

'Cuddles! Just the woman I wanted! You anywhere near a McDonalds?'

To say she was disconcerted by this abrupt change of tone would have been an understatement.

'Please tell me you haven't just snatched the phone off our clearly distraught friend to ask me to pick you up _breakfast?_' sighed Cuddy resignedly, unable to help the smile that pulled at her lips at this standard level of indifference from her Head of Diagnostics that never failed to simultaneously amuse her and piss her off big time, in equal measure.

'Does it still count as breakfast if you want a Big Mac with a side of chicken nuggets?'

'If you're a person who insists on eating crap, at any given time of the day, then sure, why not? Doesn't Wilson want fries with the chicken nuggets?'

'I don't know, he hasn't said what he wants yet.'

Of course that was all for him. Why would she be so stupid as to assume that two adult meals were, in actual fact, for two adults?

'He's just sat here looking all vulnerable after whatever sugar-coated crap you spoon fed him a minute ago… actually, he just looks kinda pissed off now. And now he's shaking his head. Like he's used to being talked about like some sort of zoo animal.'

'House-'

And here we can observe the lesser-spotted, but ever-lecturing, '_Wilson'_ storming off into the bathroom and slamming the door in his crippled friend's face-'

'House!'

'-his increasingly aggressive behavior surely hinting that maybe, just maybe, the hunger pangs of a crap-craving hangover have begun to kick in-'

'House, so help me, I will bend you over a the Nurses station in the clinic and shove your chicken nuggets where the sun don't shine if you carry on annoying Wilson when he's clearly not in the mood! Christ, 'inappropriate' doesn't even begin to cover the crap you subject Wilson to.'

'Fine, just get him the same as me then,' relented House sulkily, his tone brightening again as his brain obviously processed the possibilities that arose with Cuddy's bending him over a sturdy desk, 'So, spanking. In the clinic. What do you reckon? Yay or nay?'

'God, I don't know how the hell he puts up with you the way he does,' observed Cuddy distractedly, who by now was in her kitchen rooting out a notebook and pen to start making a list of groceries she knew her two friends would need, the phone wedged in between her chin and her shoulder as she listened to House's retort.

'He enjoys my company and, in exchange, keeps me fed. Much in the fashion of a pet cat.'

'Right… and what, pray tell, were you planning on letting Wilson feed you while he's there?'

'Erm.. well, now, that's the thing…' began House, the faint tinkling of absently pressed piano keys from down the line giving away his current whereabouts in 221B, 'We've got nothing in. And he does like his healthy crap as much as the next middle-aged woman does.'

'I'll go the store on my way,' relented Cuddy, smiling at the relief that emanated from him despite the gruffness of the begrudged 'thanks' he allowed her.

'Anything in particular you need?'

'Oreos,' replied House immediately, 'Wilson likes the white stuff in the middle.'

And with that one simple request, uncharacteristically prioritized above beer and anything else of House's own liking, Cuddy was able to starkly comprehend, with touching clarity, just how worried House actually was here about their friend.

Not that he'd ever admit that.

-[H]-

'Houfe, Wizon, izme. Lemme in, m'arms 'r gonna drob ov.'

House grinned at the muffled, disembodied voice that sounded suddenly from behind him, pushing himself up from the couch with only a twinge through his thigh now to limp to the front door and yank it open, doing the sensible thing for once and stepping back with the swinging door to avoid the harm that he fully expected to run into if he didn't get out of its way.

His preemptive actions were fully justified, as Lisa Cuddy came barreling into the apartment on a mission to reach the kitchen in the shortest time possible, her aching arms full of at least four bags of groceries, with a heavy looking McDonald's drive thru bag clamped perilously between her teeth.

And there, wedged atop the mobile grocery mountain like the caffeine-happy cherry that crowned this walking feast, was an entirely unexpected Starbucks bag containing what could only be two huge, heavenly coffees.

God, the woman just never ceased to amaze when it came to practicality.

House closed the door behind her before following in her Big Mac scented wake, coming to rest at the kitchen door for barely three seconds before he had a warm, filled to the brim McDonalds bag thrust into his chest, followed very swiftly by the Starbucks bag.

'Two large Big Macs, and a side of twenty chicken nuggets – that I fully expect you to _share_ – with four sweet and sour sauces and four tomato. One double espresso for you, and one hazelnut latte for Wilson. Now, take your edible heart attack to the couch so I can put this lot away without you ogling my chest and distracting me with your usual whining.'

_Whining?_

'Er, Cuddles, I think you're getting me mixed up with-'

'I'm not getting you mixed up with Wilson, or anyone else,' interrupted Cuddy a little breathlessly as she bent down to put tins of soup in the cupboard, leaving House no option but to observe the entity that was her ass encased in a familiar, tight pencil skirt, 'Last time I checked it was _you_ who went to the trouble of not only admiring, but _personifying_ my breasts, and it's _you_ who comes to my office at least twelve times a week to whine about your patient, your fellows, clinic duty or more often than not, Wilson. Hence me asking you very nicely to go shovel down your saturated fat in a bag, without gaining a single ounce might I add, and give me five minutes of peace so I can put your groceries away and save our hung-over friend a job. Where is he, by the way?'

House felt like an indignant small child who'd just been scolded by his mother for being a nuisance, glaring sulkily at Cuddy's shapely behind before turning on his heel to limp back to the couch, muttering loudly as he went:

'He's getting dressed in my room, he'll be out soon. And Wilson's actually the biggest perv going, he's just a lot more discreet given that he's an _ass _man and _you_ haven't got eyes in the back of your head to catch him doing it.'

Cuddy couldn't help but smile at that one, knowing full well that House was speaking no word of a lie, given that most of the males on staff acted just as Wilson did – admiring from afar, yet remaining polite enough to draw the line there, rather than ramming crude, often obviously degrading, insults down her neck that were supposed to pass as some vague attempt at flirting.

And if she didn't have a firm, unspoken hold on House's balls, then she might be bothered by the Diagnostician's almost juvenile manner of seduction. As it was, he knew quite well that she was more than a match for him on most occasions.

Which was why he now found himself sat obediently on his couch, already chewing the second of Wilson's share of nuggets, whilst rooting through the two Big Macs to steal at least a third of Wilson's fries and shove them into his own container before the Oncologist could come in and realize.

Some things never changed, no matter how fucked up life got.

Five minutes later, and Cuddy was off again, whirling back towards the front door this time with cleaning supplies clutched in her marigold gloved hands, succeeding in distracting House from the TV as he turned around to find her down on all fours in the doorway spraying and scrubbing at the floor, her ass bobbing up and down in all its round glory right in front of him.

Oh, right… of course.

Wilson's vomit.

It probably wasn't ever going to do the impossible and somehow clean itself up, was it?

And House was actually eternally grateful that Cuddy had taken the time and effort to save him the displeasure of this quite frankly disgusting job, that would have only served either to royally piss off his leg, or to royally piss off the cleaner who would more likely than not present him with a bill for the clean up.

What actually came out of his mouth, upon the fond realization that he was glad Cuddy was here, was an abrupt:

'Are you ever going to stop with the mother-henning and just sit down for once?'

Cuddy didn't bother dignifying that with an answer, rolling her eyes to herself and quite aware that that fry-laced comment was about as close to 'thanks' as she was ever going to get, not pausing in her cleaning for a moment as she threw a dry towel over the damp patch of floor.

'He said he'd press charges.'

Unsurprisingly, that got her attention.

-[H]-

He felt like a patient. An out of control, helpless patient, whose future depended entirely upon his two friends sat in House's living room right now, a mere few feet from this bedroom door, quietly discussing him. Discussing _it_. Discussing the fateful night that had, in every sense, brought him to his knees.

And he hated it.

Wilson tried not to resent them. Sat on House's bed, having been dressed in his suitcase-crumpled white t-shirt and grey sweatpants for ages now, his damp hair drying without the aid of a hairdryer, without even a basic brush of the unruly brown locks… he tried bitterly hard not to resent them. He could muster the energy to do little more than massage his throbbing temples, his elbows digging into his knees as he leant heavily on them. Trying so, so hard not to begrudge the well-meaning intentions of the two people who had quite literally dragged him through the harsh reality of the past… day? Two days? He didn't know anymore.

_08:19am._

Oh.

Thirty four hours and eight minutes.

Not that long then.

Strange. Thirty four hours and eight minutes – wait – no, _nine_ minutes ago now, he'd just been attacked.

_No, not simply 'attacked'. 'Raped', Wilson. With a capital 'R'. No point sugar-coating it, is there?_

No. There isn't.

And it really hasn't been that long.

So why does it feel like a fucking lifetime ago?

Why can't he remember what he felt like back when he was… when he was _clean?_ When he was _normal?_

Because right now, despite his promise to House to ring the Police, despite knowing that Cuddy's here, that she wants to see him after all he's put her through, that she's brought breakfast, despite knowing that House is probably tucking into his second Big Mac, a meal that Wilson couldn't stomach anyway, having already probably devoured the chicken nuggets he'd heard House request on the phone, Wilson wasn't sure he could bring himself to leave this room.

And for that defeating realization, he felt like he had this morning when his panic attack was finally over, when House could eventually get down to the business of actually having a bath in peace… when Wilson, utterly humiliated, could go no further than to just outside the bathroom door, eventually sliding down to sit uncomfortably on the wooden floor and wait for House's reappearance, wondering why the fuck he'd just agreed to voluntarily ring the cops and relive, frame by excruciating frame, the event that had utterly hollowed him out.

Inadequate. That was a word that pretty much summed up that lonely half hour of James Wilson's life. Laughably so, in fact.

He'd only shifted when he'd heard House heaving himself from the tub, scrambling shamefacedly from the floor to quickly make his way back to living room and snatch from the couch the discarded cell House had chucked at him earlier, where he'd hastily dialed Cuddy's number as promised.

It was the first task that had sprung to mind… anything to look normal. Casual. Independent.

When House had limped forth into the living room, the grime of hours of worry washed away down the drain, Wilson couldn't be sure if his friend knew of his pathetic inability to not need him, barely making eye contact with those probing baby blues as he'd focused on Cuddy's angered voice on the other end of the line. If he _was_ aware, he sure as hell didn't let on. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to be as normal as possible, taking the piss out of Wilson at the least appropriate moments.

Except this time, he'd succeeded, totally pissing Wilson off in such a ridiculously short period of time, via equally ridiculous means, that it left neither man under any illusion as to how really _not_ normal Wilson actually was here.

Leading him right up to this very moment, a shameful repeat of his secret bonding session with the hallway floor, the only difference being that here his ass had a more realistic chance of pressure relief on the old matrass of House's bed.

Because at least in here, like in the hallway, he was safe. Doubly so, since he'd locked the window. House and Cuddy were outside, within shouting distance. They wouldn't let anyone in.

Not even the team, if any of them decided to show up, as they'd done on numerous occasions in the past. Only Wilson was pretty sure they wouldn't come here today, not after the bollocking he'd heard House give Foreman earlier on, who'd rang literally minutes after he'd finished on the phone with Cuddy. Wilson didn't know exactly what excuse House had given for his absence, only able to make out the impatient snap of House's voice as he'd stood beneath the hot stream of the shower, reveling in the feeling of cleanliness that he knew full well would desert him as soon as he stepped from the flowing water, wondering idly what borderline racist insult House had lobbed at his long-suffering fellow this time.

Whatever excuse House had given for his no show, Wilson was well aware that the team would more than likely disregard it immediately, fretting and analyzing until they had some semblance of a more fitting answer. Usually, that seemingly weekly process included coming to him at every turn, seeking his validation of their many theories, playing on his weakness for House analysis, playing on his need to _care. _They were on their own this time.

How long would it take them to comprehend that they were investigating the wrong department head?

They'd connect the dots soon enough. They'd soon realize that House was not the only department head who was absent from his office. If they didn't click on to Cuddy's sporadic at best inhabitance of her office, then they would undoubtedly notice her lessened focus, her shift in attention that was usually trained wholeheartedly on the job at hand, on PPTH. And this was all after a little more than one day away from work for the three most senior members of the team. The questions would only grow more insistent from the ducklings, the theories more ludicrous. It was what they did best, after all.

Eventually, someone would realize that House wasn't the 'sick' one. Probably Thirteen. It was obvious to all at PPTH, perhaps less so to he and House at times, that one was simply an extension of the other. Hence, if one needed the support of the other, they'd be there. Not immediately, perhaps, but eventually. House sometimes in his own special, self-centred way. So they'd conclude that House's absence didn't necessarily mean that he was the one who needed the time off. And given that they'd spoken to House, and would continue to ring when they needed him, then they'd guess it was Wilson straight away.

So, after establishing that, another duckling would raise the possibility of him being off sick for something other than illness, since, really, there was no illness severe enough that didn't require hospital admission and allowed you to stay at home, cared for by your egotistical friend. Likewise, there was no illness really that that same egotistical friend would insist on keeping secret. They were all Doctors, after all. You have an embarrassing illness that means you're stuck at home, being cared for by your friend, and any of them would want you better, joking aside. So, eventually, someone would raise the possibility of Wilson having been attacked. That one would probably be Cameron. One glance in passing at Cuddy's face, and anyone with a normal capacity to care couldn't miss the pain and concern etched into every feature. Of course Cameron, lovechild of ethics and morality, would realize.

And after that, well… would anyone be brave, or stupid, enough to voice the possibility of something far worse than just being attacked? Would anyone think like their department head does, would they think to go back inside the box after searching so thoroughly in it the first time round? Would that dreadful possibility of a sexual assault, that would seem so obvious on any other patient they didn't know personally, that no one likes to think about, become not so much a dreadful possibility, but a horrifying reality?

Collectively, Wilson was under no doubt that Chase and Foreman probably would.

Taub, and probably Foreman to some extent, would stay focused on the task in hand and actually try to bring the differential back to the current patient at every opportunity. Staying stoically dedicated to their patient's wellbeing, until the others actually got somewhere in the 'Where's Wilson?' differential. He'd probably jump in at the very end, saying the one word the others couldn't bring themselves to say.

Rape.

_Rape._

RAPE.

_Oh God. _

If they hadn't already worked it out then, then they would soon enough.

And Wilson wasn't sure he could handle it. Them knowing. His patients knowing. The whole hospital knowing. His _family_ knowing.

Lying backwards now across the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, that ever-burning sting behind his eyes more insistent that ever, he wasn't sure he could handle any of it.


	11. Keep Your Eyes Open

Hi everyone!

I'm re-posting this chapter for the third time

as it didn't appear in the home screen when I

updated a couple of days ago two times over.

Hoping it's my fault and it's fixed now - third

time lucky! My sincere apologies to those who

have already read and reviewed, thank you

very, very much, I just don't want anyone to

miss a chapter! :D xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>Keep your feet ready, heartbeat steady…<em>

_Keep your eyes open._

_Keep your aim locked, the night goes dark…_

_Keep your eyes open.'_

{Taylor Swift: Eyes Open}

'Wilson?'

House's hushed voice was little more than a whisper as he cautiously poked his head around the bedroom door for the second time today, the Diagnostician uncharacteristically grimacing with every creak of the floorboards that announced his entry into his shadowed bedroom as he crept over to his unintentionally slumbering friend, a task not so easy given that every other limping step sent a flare of pain shooting hotly through his right thigh.

Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about barging in here and waking Wilson up via some ethically questionable method. Normally, at his very politest, he may have knocked. _May_ have.

Of course, both of them options were long inaccessible, given that things were the very opposite of 'normal' and the execution of either could send Wilson into a panic attack at the very least.

The Oncologist hardly stirred when House slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed next to him, his feathery breaths altering for only a second with the dip of the mattress as he frowned slightly before settling again, curling up that little bit tighter under the blanket House had thrown over him a good few hours ago now. With his knees practically hugged to his chest, as they appear to have been since House discovered him sleeping here this morning, it was clear to any onlooker just how exposed Wilson felt at the moment. Even in his sleep, it quite clearly plagued him, shattering every defense until an exhausted Wilson was no more.

How had they come to this?

How could this boy-wonder Head of Oncology, the strongest, most decent, loving man House had ever known, be reduced to this? This vulnerable shell of the friend who had less than two days ago been so insistently caring, so at ease with his lot in life, so stable, so unassuming in everything he did? He asked for nothing, gave his all with each and every one of his patients, gave his all with House, never bothered others with the fundamental fuck ups in his life, keeping it all to himself… and had been rewarded by the powers that be with _this_.

The universe's cruel, twisted version of karma.

The phrase 'bad things happen to good people' just didn't really cut it here. Because what had happened to Wilson wasn't just 'bad'. It was catastrophic. And the thought of anyone seeing Wilson as just 'good' was clearly laughable. Well, to House it was, anyway.

And as he silently observed Wilson now, so unbearably young in his sleep, yet so undeniably tainted, the bruises to his face highlighted horribly by the suffering etched into every crevice, House had to determinedly blink away the now familiar burn behind his seething gaze. Because Wilson was so much more than 'good'. He had been so innocent, really. So endearingly naïve at times. So hopeful. Not nearly as cynical as the Head of his specialty, hell, as a man of his _age_, should be. Always searching for the best in people, for the common sense route, very rarely getting caught up in the tedious bitchiness that came with the hospital territory. And if he did, it was more often than not in an attempt to settle an argument. Probably standing up for, or up to, his best friend, yet again. Like he always did. Watching House's back at every turn. Not really expecting anything in return.

Not really expecting to get fucking _raped_ for no apparent reason.

House couldn't help it, the sharp inhale of breath sticking horribly in his throat with the wave of now familiar sadness that rushed through him as he closed his eyes tight shut, settling coldly in his chest like a physical weight, crushing his heart with every angered beat it took. Because _this_ wasn't fair. Life wasn't playing fair. If he was honest, life had never really played fair, but this… well, quite frankly, this shitty little interlude just took the biscuit.

House hadn't even realized he was gripping Wilson's hand through the blanket until he felt the desperate squeeze back, opening his eyes to surprisingly find those sleepy, dark brown counterparts still safely hidden behind the closed lids of their owner. Even asleep, there was no way around the fact that Wilson was totally lost, clinging to anything that could keep him anchored somehow.

And there was no way around the fact that, consequently, they were practically holding hands.

In a gesture of comfort, yes.

In a _voluntary_ gesture of comfort.

And after everything they'd gone through over the past two days, after the clear, inevitable crumbling of the physical boundaries between the two friends, after the seemingly endless embraces House had rightly held an exhausted Wilson in, catching him every time he'd fallen so hard, well… he couldn't lie here.

His first instinct, selfishly, surprisingly perhaps, was to drop Wilson's hand like a hot potato.

A very, _very_ hot potato.

Because this wasn't _them_.

He could count on one hand the number of times they'd shown any sort of physical indication of the depth of their friendship. As in hardly ever. Actually, as in _never_. Oh, there was the odd time they'd inadvertently invaded the other's personal space. Usually resulting in a somewhat intimidated Wilson and a berated, pissed off House. Both, in their own way, usually ending up a little flustered with those unintended, close encounters.

But this… this was almost intimate. In a moment where both men where sober, clear-headed and grieving for the stricken turn their lives had taken, this tight grip they had on each other, to a fully conscious House anyway, was positively terrifying. Because Wilson currently wasn't hysterical with fear, he wasn't crying, he wasn't yelling, he wasn't amidst the throes of a panic attack… he was sleeping. Quite steadily so, considering. There was no reason for any sort of physical contact.

Wilson wasn't even aware that House was there.

And yet he was finding more and more that he couldn't let go of Wilson's hand.

And it was precisely _that_ that scared him shitless. That heady notion that went against his first, innately Housian instinct to drop Wilson's hand, that reflex to keep tight hold of his best friend over the force of habit thinking that had initially ordered him to _drop it_, the two conflicting desires intertwining as irrevocably as their hands were.

He didn't want to let go. More to the point, he didn't think Wilson would want him to let go. Because if he felt anything vaguely similar to what House felt, then he'd hold on for dear life, clinging to this precipice of physical reality when, mentally, they both knew he was slipping away, falling endlessly with no safety net.

And House would _not_ be the one to let him fall.

He would _not _be the one to let him go.

He _wouldn't_.

And now, almost obsessively, he was driving himself insane with this endless analysis. Of a simple gesture that, really, wasn't entirely unjustified given the circumstances.

In fact, if Wilson had been awake, he would have been proud of that little psychology session thought House drily, annoyed with himself and sighing noisily as he leant over to shake Wilson gently by the shoulder, like he should have just done in the first place, his hand still notably enclosed in Wilson's.

'Wilson? Wilson, it's me. Wakey, wakey sunshine.'

Wilson finally did stir a little at that, squeezing House's hand that he still didn't know he had clutched in his own, before scrunching his nose up in that way that House fondly realized was just another Wilsonism he wasn't all to familiar with, until the Oncologist finally squinted up very sleepily from the warm depths of the blanket.

And promptly freaked as his vision swam with the image of _someone_ leaning over him, not even registering that it was just House, only knowing that he'd been pinned underneath a sweaty, revolting man against his will once before and had wished himself no less than dead as a result.

There was no way he could go there again, no fucking _way_ on God's Earth could he go there again, his usually calm, measured voice morphing into a horrible sound that was practically a scream, a guttural scream that made the hairs on the back of House's neck stand on end as he found his hand violently flung right back at him.

'NOOOO! _Nooo!_ No, no, no, no, no, _no-_'

'Whoa – _Wilson!_ Wilson it's _me!'_ yelled House as Wilson practically vaulted him off the bed to the floor, the terrified Oncologist seeming to half fall, half scramble, backwards over the bed with his blanket, twisting the sheets beneath him as he dissolved from a protesting, terrified string of pleas into heart-wrenching sobs, sobs that only grew far harsher when he took a dizzying second to let his frightened gaze lock onto a bewildered House for a moment, his swimming eyes growing wide with the shattering apprehension that'd he'd just more or less succeeded in throwing none other than his best friend from the bed.

His _crippled_ best friend no less, who couldn't help the color-draining wince that flashed across his face as he wearily pulled himself up to sit himself back on the edge of the mattress, clutching his thigh that had obviously jarred badly in the whole sorry process, no words needed for a thoroughly mortified Wilson to see the damage he'd done.

'Oh- oh, _God_,' choked out Wilson hoarsely, lost for words and crawling forwards slightly before falling back again, so utterly ashamed that he just didn't know what to do with himself, the tears streaming down his face as tried to speak, tried to say anything, with no words able to make it past the sheer helplessness that had him floored, his hands as they instinctively reached out to House falling back again as he buckled under the panic.

He didn't even realize he was folding in on himself until he had done, scrabbling backwards into the pillows with his eyes squeezed shut and his face buried in his arms as he curled into the tightest ball possible, blocking out everything with his hands as they gripped the sides of his head, covering his ears to some vague, primal noise that he faintly registered, with a horrifying sense of realization, seemed to be coming from him.

He didn't need anyone to tell him he was going mad. He didn't need anyone to tell him that he was losing it, that he'd probably lost whatever 'it' was when that bastard had left him broken on his own condo floor. He didn't need anyone to tell him because he already _knew_.

Overwhelmingly, heartbreakingly, pathetically even… the crushing fact was, he already knew.

And it was killing him.

'Wilson, stop,' pleaded House as he gritted his teeth to crawl over the bed towards his wreck of a best friend, the burn in his thigh nothing compared to the pure torture that could only come in instances such as this, the pain of seeing Wilson so stripped of any sort of self-control, pain that couldn't simply be dimmed with the aid of Vicodin, crippling in its own right.

Wilson was inconsolable.

'I'm fine, Wilson. I'm _fine._ Listen to me, please Wilson! Look at me!'

His words were doing sweet fuck all to get through to Wilson, and House knew it. He didn't have a clue what the best thing to do here was, struck suddenly by the harrowing memory of that young girl he'd treated for Chlamydia a few years back in the clinic. She'd been the first patient that day to have actually contracted a sexually transmitted infection, expectedly breaking down in tears on the examination table when he'd informed her of this arbitrary fact and then promptly flipping when he'd stepped towards her with the prescribed meds, savagely smacking the pot from his hands to send them scattering across the room.

She was barely more than a child, scruffily dressed and with lank, unkempt dirty blonde hair that fell in greasy waves around her pale face.

But as she'd looked up to him, defensive upon his threatening invasion of her personal space and silently daring him to take one step closer, she'd had that look. That look of innocence tainted by something unspeakable, something that had forced her to grow up far quicker than anyone should have to, something that made her look positively feral.

A look that, frighteningly, House had just witnessed firsthand being mirrored in every feature of Wilson's face upon his awakening.

He hadn't needed to ask to know that she'd been raped. Fuck knows what she was like before it had happened, but House could vouch firsthand that she was more than fucked up as a result, seeing as she'd latched onto him and only him when it came to trusting someone enough to rein back some control over her life.

He'd turned to everyone that day, Cuddy, Wilson, Cameron, Foreman, Chase… they'd all offered him conflicting advice on how to handle her.

_She's looking to connect with you, and that's what's scaring the hell out of you._

Those had been Wilson's insightful words of wisdom, uttered way back when rape was a tragic life event that his best friend's patient was having to deal with. Uttered way back when he was still a pitying observer of the aftermath of rape, limited, thankfully, to only imagining the horror from the somewhat distant Doctor side of the table.

Uttered way back when he didn't have firsthand experience of just how devastating rape fundamentally is, parked right in the middle of the most definitely _patient_ side of the table.

And looking at Wilson now, crying, curled up, shaking and as far away from House as he could possibly be without falling messily from the bed, House had to wonder if Wilson back then had ever imagined that it would be him walking in the footprints of that patient in just a few years time.

Because it had certainly never crossed House's mind. Nor Cuddy's, he was sure.

House remembered the discussion he, Wilson and Cuddy had had once… Eve? Was that her name? Well, once she'd been discharged anyway, he could recall quite clearly what they'd talked about. He and Wilson playing Foosball, neither distacted by Cuddy walking in. Her saying that he'd done good, because he'd gotten Eve to tell him what had happened. Him muttering in reply that they'd got the girl to cry by dragging out her story, yes, but that didn't necessarily mean that he'd helped her, that he'd _healed_ her.

_Then why did you…? _

That had been Wilson again. He'd suitably paid for that predictable moment of distraction when House had immediately taken advantage and scored before looking up to meet the questioning gaze of those curious brown eyes.

He'd told Wilson something then that he barely ever said, four words that made him feel totally inadequate, helpless even, whenever they crossed his lips.

_Because I don't know._

And he was right – he didn't know. He may have helped her. Equally, he could have just made things ten times worse. Eve could be happy with someone right now… or she could have taken a shedload of something a whole lot worse than Benzodiazepines at the first opportunity and succeeded the second time in attempting to take the high road out of this crappy world. Either way, he'd never know.

He'd headed for the door then, but not before Wilson had asked if he was going to follow up with her.

And he'd taken a moment before replying, muttering four words that, that time, had drawn a line in how much he was obliged to care.

_One day, one room._

In other words, Eve was gone. She was no longer his priority, as stipulated by her own philosophy:

_I'm gonna base this moment on who I'm stuck in a room with. It's what life is. It's a series of rooms. And who we get stuck in those rooms with adds up to what our lives are._

But what about those people whose rooms you visited whenever you could, knocking on their doors to limp in, distract them from their note-taking and steal half of their sandwich before throwing yourself onto their office couch to harp on about the stupidity of the latest Diagnostics Department patient, usually under the cover of an Oncology consult?

What about those people who are there so constantly that you end up going for bloody breakfast together after the Valentine's night shift, who you end up taking in when they've broken up with their latest wife, who's the only person in the world whose voice you want to hear when your stuck in a mental institution, who you end up living with in a Condo that was bought, really, to cater to your needs, who you end up receiving a fake, public proposal of marriage from in a bid to stop you from sleeping with your hot neighbor?

What about those people whose rooms you wish you were in even when you're not?

What about Wilson?

Because the fact of the matter was, his and Wilson's rooms, through choice, weren't really all that separate.

And as a result, House didn't have a clue what he was meant to be doing here, relying on his gut instinct to do what felt right. Because Wilson wasn't simply a patient, he wasn't someone he was professionally obliged to act in the best interests of.

Wilson was the most important person in his life, the single person he'd let in, the single person who chose to be with him voluntarily and not because he worked for or with him.

He was the single person House actually gave a damn about.

It was just a pity it had taken something like this to make him realize that, Wilson's drink-fuelled, but no less harsh, words from last night still ringing in his ears.

So House said nothing, only moving to shuffle closer to Wilson on the double bed until he was right up next to him, doing his best to ignore the pain that throbbed in his protesting leg. He didn't miss the flinch that ran through Wilson's trembling body when he froze at House's touch, nor the sharp intake of breath in between muffled sobs as House carefully slid his arm around Wilson's tensed shoulders, where it took only the slightest of pressure to persuade the Oncologist to gratefully lean into him with a shuddered sigh, curling up tightly into his side as House wrapped his other arm around Wilson too, pulling him in closer still.

House had no idea how long they stayed like that for, focused on nothing but the lessening sobs that tore through Wilson's body as the tension slowly but surely drained away, Wilson's breathing balancing out again with the steady pattern that House's hand ghosting up and down his arm unintentionally provided, automatically reverting to the tried and tested method of breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth without any words needed from his friend.

It was a routine that both of them knew, with dreaded certainty, would play out again at numerous points in the future for a long, long time.

This was just the beginning of a journey that, at this point, where Wilson was just so hopelessly lost, seemed nothing short of unfathomable.


	12. I'm Barely Holding On To You

Hi everyone!

Just to apologise for the lateness of this - RL has been

a bit hectic lately with idiot men and work and my little

car practically exploding, so my apologies! Anyway,

hope you enjoy! :D xxx

'_The broken locks were a warning… you got inside my head._

_I tried my best to be guarded…I'm an open book instead._

_And I still see your reflection, inside of my eyes._

_That are looking for purpose…_

_They're still looking for life._

_I'm falling apart… I'm barely breathing._

_With a broken heart, that's still beating._

_In the pain, is there healing?_

_In your name, I find meaning._

_So, I'm holding on… I'm holding on._

_I'm holding on… I'm barely holding on to you.'_

{Lifehouse: Broken}

* * *

><p>'I didn't mean to hurt you,' whispered Wilson eventually, utterly humiliated and unable to bring himself to look up to House despite the fact that he was practically lying in the crook of his best friend's arm, cringing horribly every time he so much as glanced at House's surely hurting thigh, the pain there undoubtedly caused by him and him alone this time.<p>

God… he couldn't get his head round what had just happened. There was no excuse.

He felt _sick._

'I know you didn't. So don't you dare apologize,' replied House swiftly, hoping that was enough as he felt what might have been a small nod from Wilson, he wasn't sure.

Neither of them were sure of anything anymore, least of all what exactly the boundaries of their friendship were here given that they'd more than blurred in the past two days.

One thing House was vaguely certain of, however, was the fact that Wilson probably felt no better despite him telling the over-caring idiot he clearly wasn't to blame. The startlingly clear indication that the Oncologist was on the verge of a mental breakdown thanks to a random stranger taking it upon himself to violate him via such cruel means wasn't going to change the fact that Wilson, at the heart of him, simply cared too much about others. None more so than House, as had been proven time and time again over the years.

And it was only about thirty seconds later that House's suspicions came to fruition, the tremor that clawed through Wilson's voice so unnecessarily shame-ridden that House had to wonder, and not for the first time, the likelihood of this whole nightmare being just that – a stupid, brutal nightmare that he'd soon awaken from, back into the real world, back into a world of stupid patients, flapping Ducklings, a nagging Cuddy… back into a world with a strong, decidedly _happy_ Wilson who offered House some level of peace in the serene office next door, that expression of resigned affection always lingering on his face in some form or other as he looked up from his laborious note-taking.

And then House remembered that, actually, he wasn't that lucky. He'd never been lucky.

Because, actually, life was a total bitch that tore your best friends down in a chilling instant to discard them and leave them like… well, like _this_.

Shattered into a million pieces that he wasn't sure he could pick up and ever put back together again.

'I thought-' began Wilson hesitantly, his voice breaking with the wave of terror that engulfed him before he tried to carry on, ashamed and frightened in equal measure, 'I thought.. I thought you… God, it's stupid-'

'You thought I was him,' finished House quietly, knowing full well he was stating the obvious but finding his heart sinking even further anyway when he felt the expected sensation of Wilson nodding again, a small nod that lasted barely more than a second before Wilson was moving his hands in that all too familiar, almost child-like gesture to hide his face from his best friend, like _that_ could blot out life at its crappy present, the trembling that ran the length of his entire body giving away anyway the fear that held him as completely captive as his embarrassment.

'I'm losing it, House,' came the choked utterance from the muffled depths of Wilson's hands, the terrified words tumbling messily from his lips into the warm darkness in a hopeless plea for the Diagnostician to prevent the inevitable, to do the impossible, to do _something_, 'I'm losing it and I can't stop it and he's… he's _here_, all the time, _everywhere_, and I can't… I can't do it, do _this_, anymore. I can't. I just… can't.'

House swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. What the fuck was he meant to say to that? Wilson had already agreed to go to the Police, sure, but that wasn't going to miraculously erase the memory was it? It wasn't going to erase the sound, the smell, the_ feel_ of Wilson's life being so sordidly turned on its head… it wasn't going to suddenly make everything better. In fact, for a short time after going through every painstaking detail, after reliving so vividly the lowest point in his life, it would probably make things a whole lot worse.

It wasn't often he was lost for words, but right now, with his best friend lying in tattered shreds besides him, House had no words of comfort that could even come close to alleviating the helplessness that had overwhelmed Wilson so ruthlessly.

He had nothing.

And it appeared that Wilson knew this too, if him untangling himself from House a couple of silent minutes later to determinedly push himself away and sit tiredly on the edge of the bed was anything to go by, his voice barely more than a jaded sigh when he spoke to the floor.

'Where's Cuddy?'

'Work,' answered House quietly to Wilson's slumped back, heaving himself up to limp around to the other side of the bed and sit down next to him, 'She wanted to see you but you were asleep, so she dropped off our breakfast and some groceries, then left to get to PPTH for about eleven. You've been asleep most of the day, so I ate your Big Mac. And your chicken nuggets. Sorry.'

He'd actually offered Wilson's Hazelnut Latte to Cuddy once they'd established that Wilson wasn't waking up any time soon, so it wasn't like he'd snaffled _all_ of Wilson's breakfast in its entirety. Not that Wilson needed to know that.

'Like hell you are,' mumbled Wilson fondly, reveling in the small laugh that escaped him then at this flash of total normality that lay in the opportunistic greediness of his friend, flashing a smirking House a brief semblance of a smile before looking down to stare at the floor again, distant once more.

'And she's dropped the samples off with the Police,' remembered House, scrabbling frantically round his unusually clueless mind for something, _anything_, to say, anything to keep the conversation going, 'She went with the kit yesterday sometime… didn't give your name or anything. It's all anonymous.'

Wilson did nothing but nod to that, quite clearly in a different place entirely despite physically only being a few inches from House.

And yet he may as well have been on a different planet.

The heavy silence that engulfed them then was, to a flummoxed House anyway, nothing short of frustrating. Wilson had been an open book to him for as long as he could remember, always wearing his heart on his sleeve even when he tried not to. Nothing ever got past House, not for long anyway, and yet now his best friend was totally isolated from him. It was almost frightening how closed of Wilson was, that sense of… safety? Familiarity? Well, whatever it was that Wilson gave House, whatever combination of all things good that provided the steadfast grounding that acted in perfect counterbalance to House's whirlwind of crazy genius, it had just slipped away so damn suddenly. Too quickly for either of them to acclimatize to. Too quickly for either of them to realize that that hypothetical doorway that linked them, that doorway that had always remained open no matter how many times either man tried to close it, was slowly swinging shut from Wilson's side, set in motion by the revolting stranger who'd crept in a through a window Wilson didn't even know existed to so casually tip that door on its way to totally shutting out his unsuspecting best friend.

Too quickly for either of them to catch it before it slammed shut in House's face with a resounding crash, leaving them both stunned, lonely and with no apparent way back in for the Diagnostician.

And he didn't like it. Not one bit. Oh, House knew he moaned about Wilson more than he raved, of course he did, that was his right, his _obligation_, as Wilson's best friend. As was the tendency to take the Oncologist for granted.

And it was becoming clear now, with the sudden loss of a fully functioning Wilson, that House really hadn't appreciated what they'd had until it had been so heartlessly stolen from them.

'What are you thinking about?' asked House eventually, hating that intrusive question even as he spoke it, hating this rollercoaster of emotions as much as Wilson did as he watched the stress playing out across Wilson's face, his jaw tensed as he worried his bottom lip with his teeth, all the while playing idly with his hands as he focused his gaze on the carpet.

'Oh, you know… the usual. Work. The team. But, well… I guess my patients, mostly,' he sighed sadly, running his hand through his uncharacteristically unkempt locks where it came to rest at the base of his neck in that pensive stance that gave away every time just how little Wilson was coping, eyes closed now and his voice thick with emotion when he uttered his next admission:

'I don't want to hand them over to McNeil or Johnston or anyone else, House. _I'm_ their Oncologist. _Me._ I shouldn't have to! There _my_ patients, _my_ patients who have turned to me all these years, _my_ patients who still rely on me to help them through every step of the way, _my_ patients who want me to hold their hand when their time comes, who want me to tell them everything will be okay, who want me to be there for their families when they're gone. Their _mine_, and they shouldn't have to suffer any more than they are already just 'cause I'm too.. too damned _weak_ to get a grip and just pull myself together.'

And there it was.

_Guilt._

It was an emotion that James Wilson just wouldn't be James Wilson without remembered House wearily.

'You were raped less than forty-eight hours ago, Wilson,' he pointed out softly, the grimace he felt cross his own face at the very mention of the atrocity reflected wholly in the nauseated expression that now clouded Wilson's, 'And if any one of them knew that, I don't think a single one of your patients would expect you back at work bright and early Monday morning. Most of them are dying, yes. That doesn't make them heartless.'

'It's not like_ I'm_ dying though, is it?' whispered Wilson shakily, taking a deep, shuddered breath that was only just managing to hold him together on the surface. Inside, he'd already fallen apart, numb now from the pain that seemed hell bent on eating him from the inside out.

'Aren't you?'

If the sadness that permeated that loaded question didn't fully illustrate House's feelings for his best friend, then the profound grief that swam in the depths of those fearful, wide blue eyes as Wilson looked up to them in surprised response surely did; House's next brutally honest questioning catching him totally off guard.

'Do you honestly think that your quality of life, right now, is better than your patients'? Is life, at the moment, really worth wading through all this shit for? 'Cause from where I'm sitting, Wilson, it doesn't fucking look, or feel, like it.'

Wilson would have laughed in disbelief at the innate wrongness of that insensitive statement had it not struck home to hurt so damn much. As it was, it was a typically honest observation from his best friend that, as usual, was spot on in accuracy, and mercilessly so.

'You know, you can be a real bastard sometimes,' whispered Wilson as he stared in disbelief at House, his already shining eyes filling once more before he furiously looked away, furious mostly with himself and hating the man next to him for doing what he did best in just cutting through the crap to get to the heart of the matter, hating him for having the balls to just say, with almost unfeeling objectivity, what was what.

But most of all, above all else, he hated him for always, _always_ being right.

'Yeah, well… one of us has to be,' muttered House sadly as he got up to leave him be and limp towards the door, knowing quite well that Wilson wouldn't be back at work anytime soon, no matter how guilty he felt. He simply wasn't capable – how could he be, after what had happened? How could he give his all into enabling a patient to have a high a quality of life as possible when his own quality of life lay in mental tatters? It just wasn't going to happen, and House could only hope that Wilson would forgive him in the end for the cold, harsh dose of reality that he'd just dumped on his head in typical House fashion.

House was almost at the doorway when he stopped, struck suddenly by a fleeting thought.

'Do you want jelly on your peanut butter sandwich?'

Wilson didn't answer for a disconcerted moment, his face incredulous when he finally looked up to House with a longsuffering sigh.

'What?'

'I said,' repeated House slowly, his tone deliberately patronizing, 'Do. You. Want. _Jelly._ On. Your-'

'_No_ – no, I don't want anything,' interrupted Wilson quickly, not giving a flying fuck about something as mundane as bloody_ food_ as he scrubbed at his reddened eyes with the heels of his hands, 'M'fine. I'm not hungry.'

'Jelly it is then,' decided House, really not giving a crap whether Wilson was hungry or not as he made to head into the hallway again. The man needed to eat, that was all there was to it. Even House wasn't so selfish that he'd let his best friend, the same man who'd admittedly fed him for donkey's years, waste away while he dealt with this shit. Least he could do was feed him.

And it was something to do, something he could actually _do_ to begin to remedy this situation, to get in motion the process of helping Wilson to get back on his feet again, even if the fact was that this was little more than an offering of a band aid to cover a gaping, bleeding wound right through the heart of his best friend.

'_House.'_

If it wasn't for the pissed tone of Wilson's voice growling, almost hissing, his name at his back, House would have carried on walking then instead of stopping once more with a tired roll of his eyes as he turned around yet again.

'What?'

'I said I'm _fine,' _repeated Wilson quietly, his heat hammering in his chest despite the words that had just left his mouth as he silently dared his best friend to contradict him, defiant brown eyes boring fearfully into equally troubled blue ones.

It didn't take a genius to comprehend that this battle of wills wasn't being fought over something so trivial as a sandwich.

'You've eaten nothing since yesterday morning,' pointed out House, his tone unusually gentle given how acutely aware he was of the control issue that had arisen here over something as seemingly little as food, 'and I know you're not hungry, but you need to eat, Wilson. Last time I checked it was a necessity of that thing we humans call _life_, in case you've forgotten. And you've got meds to take. If you think you're puking them all over my bed 'cause you took them on an empty stomach, you can think again.'

Wilson said nothing to that, the glare he was directing at House intensifying briefly before he turned away again with an irritated shake of his head. Somehow, despite being able to think of nothing but the repulsive man who'd violated him that night, despite feeling continually nauseous with the myriad of vicious infections that could be festering within him _right now_, Wilson had managed to completely and utterly forget about his meds.

The most conspicuous depiction of this whole sorry affair, the little three times daily reminder that, actually, he was going to feel like utter shit for the next few weeks, and he'd totally sidetracked those damn pills.

Great.

Just fucking _great._

'Look,' offered House after a minute or so, feeling suddenly, inexplicably sorry for the sullen man slumped before him, 'You know Cuddy's taken the samples to the Police. Somehow – call it female intuition or just plain common sense – she didn't think you'd feel up to chatting to them over coffee today, or anytime soon. So just… just leave calling them for now and come through here for something to eat already. Please, Wilson.'

Maybe it was the fractional turn of Wilson's head as he eventually turned slightly towards House, maybe it was the small intake of breath, House couldn't be sure, but_ something_ let him know that Wilson was relenting here, like he always did in the end whenever they clashed over something, and he couldn't help but pounce on his friend's penchant for conceding to his will with a fact that would surely bring Wilson round.

It had to, because otherwise House was stumped as to what to do next.

'We've got Oreos in.'

Wilson did look up to him then, clearly resigned to the fact that his best friend, as per usual, was not going to stop hassling him until he'd at the very least compromised with House on his latest request. And touched as Wilson was by House's stocking up of their mutually sentimental snack, he'd just never imagined the day that the Diagnostician's request, instead of persuading him to partake in playing some immature prank on Cuddy, would instead be a genuinely reasonable request for him to eat something past the nausea that had plagued him constantly for near on forty-eight hours now, nausea that plagued him for one reason and one reason only.

To say he was a bit thrown with this turn of events, with this role-reversal of the enabler becoming the needy one and vice-versa, would be an understatement.

Because Wilson, undeniably, was totally lost.

As was House, apparently, as he scraped the barrel in a last ditch effort to transfer Wilson from his bedroom to the living room.

'And I'll make coffee-'

'Oh, God – you know what?_ Fine_,' conceded Wilson finally, cutting House's wheedling off and simultaneously throwing his arms up as he pushed himself up from the bed to practically march past House and out the door into the hallway, taking some small comfort from the genuine smile he could feel boring into his back as he called back to House, 'but_ I'll_ do the coffee while _you_ find the Oreos. You couldn't make a decent cup if your life depended on it and I feel crap enough as it is.'

House wasn't stupid, he knew full well that that little performance was just that, and nothing more than an attempt on Wilson's behalf to quell House's pleas before they turned into full on, shameless begging. Wilson was still well and truly fucked up, there was no doubt about that.

And yet House couldn't suppress the grin that lingered as he limped from his bedroom to follow Wilson to the kitchen, a grin that was there purely for the reason that maybe, just maybe, Wilson would be alright in the end. And how did he know that?

Because that 'little performance', perhaps without Wilson consciously realizing it, had just enabled House to get his own way once more.

Like he always had done, and, hopefully, like he always would do.

After all, sayings were sayings for a reason – and House was pretty sure that the only way really was up once you'd hit rock bottom.


	13. Please Remind Me Who I Really Am

Hi everyone!

New update for you :) For all my American readers, and

any others affected, my thoughts and prayers are with all

of you and your families and friends in the aftermath of

Hurricane Sandy. Love to you all xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>There's a place, that I know.<em>

_It's not pretty there and few have ever gone._

_If I show it to you now, will it make you run away?_

_Or will you stay… even if it hurts?_

_Even if I try to push you out, will you return?_

_And remind me who I really am?_

_Please remind me who I really am…'_

{Kelly Clarkson: Dark Side}

-[H]-

'Oh, for God's sake - will you lot _quit_ with the House/Wilson differential? We're not ill, we haven't eloped, and neither of us are your damn_ patient_. D'you think Wilson would be simultaneously pleasuring two naked chicks, right now, if he was?'

Wilson practically snorted the prophylactic pills he was half way through taking at that far too casually stated, thoroughly lewd comment, managing to throw a preoccupied looking House a reproachful glare amidst the coughing fit that almost had him choking on his own meds.

He received nothing but a classic 'seriously – why are you surprised?' look in return from his jabbering best friend as House insisted on continuing a losing argument down his cell with not one, but all of the ducklings from the kitchen doorway, to which Wilson simply shook his head resignedly once he could breathe again and sat back to pretend to watch yet more crappy TV.

Less than three seconds later and he couldn't help his weary gaze falling back to the various bottles of pills that sat so innocently on the coffee table before him. Zidovudine, Lamivudine, Lopinavir, Ritonavir… these were all names of drugs that Wilson recognized, names that he, as a Doctor, would readily recommend to any patient in need when they offered so many people such hope.

As a _Doctor_, he revered them.

As a patient, a victim, whatever the hell he was labeled as these days… he hated them. Because he was shattered. Physically, emotionally… he was just totally drained. Those same drugs that the Doctor in him sat in awe of symbolized everything that had gone wrong in his world. One glance, and he could feel the clammy sweat breaking out all over him, he could feel the tingling echoes of the shearing force he'd inflicted upon his inner thighs that night, scrubbing so hard with that damn cloth to rid himself of _him._ He couldn't help the tremble that still shook his hands, his heart hammering as he closed his eyes, weak remnants of billowing, fiery pain still clawing so deep inside him that he had to swallow back the nausea, his mouth suddenly dry with the continual urge to vomit.

Some would call his symptoms side effects. Normal, expected, simple side effects. Nausea, fatigue, headaches, diarrhea, fever… he had them all, just as House had predicted he would. The fever was mild, but it was there, helped along by his inability to stomach anything more than the mere morsels of food he was managing to tolerate, helped along by the lack of fluids, by the loss of fluids… helped along by his reluctance to sleep. A reluctance that had nothing to do with the meds. A reluctance born simply of the fear that had him rooted to this couch. And that, right there, was becoming the undoing of him, because, God… he needed to sleep. Wilson was so, so tired. He was exhausted, dead on his feet, yet so frightened that of a night, when he curled up on this couch, he kept his eyes wide open to the dark that was willing him to drift off, listening so intently to every tiny noise that he jumped constantly, more often than not giving in to just switch a lamp on and feeling all the more pathetic for doing so. He couldn't close his eyes… he couldn't see _those_ eyes. _His_ eyes.

Not again.

Please, not again.

That, Wilson could control. He dozed restlessly through the day instead, the dreams, nightmares, kept at bay by House's presence. House didn't know his friend was barely sleeping… Wilson hadn't told him. Past his point blank refusal of House's offer to sleep in the same room as him, Wilson had said precisely nothing about this. House was already wound tight with worry for his best friend, he didn't need him losing any more sleep than necessary over him, of all people. He felt guilty enough as it was landing all this crap at House's doorstep in the first place without making it any worse for the Diagnostician.

Nearly two weeks had passed now since he'd been attacked. Two whole weeks, and, consciously, he could barely remember them. And as unsettling as that was, as disconnected from reality as that made him feel, Wilson just couldn't bring himself to even try and remember. It was just too much. Everything seemed to have just merged foggily together in a numb blur of meds, nausea and House, uncharacteristically perhaps, _faffing_. Two weeks of Cuddy dropping by, her unaware pitying causing him to cringe all the more as she handed over bags of groceries. Two weeks of Wilson barely eating anything House put in front of him, feeling relentlessly sick, his stomach having churned for what seemed like forever now, a lot of those same groceries completely wasted as they inevitably ended up in the trashcan or down the toilet. Two weeks of the minutes and hours running away from him so quickly that he was constantly getting left behind, unable to catch up, the bustling world outside that darkened window feeling like a hellish lifetime away. Two weeks of Foreman, or sometimes Chase, ringing House's cell. Constantly. Investigating. _Checking up_. Two weeks that seemed to have been spent, day and daunting night, on this couch.

As odd as it was, as much as he knew that his ass would end up more or less melded to the thing, Wilson felt marginally relieved when he was sat right here on House's old couch. This one piece of furniture that had always been waiting to offer him a warm place to sleep when the shit in his life hit the fan. It was his last resort, his one safe place, and it never failed him.

Although, really, it wasn't so much the actual couch that offered him this sense of security, this feeling of being fiercely protected no matter what, was it?

It never had been.

It was the owner.

And, undoubtedly, it always would be.

'Wilson?'

Wilson jumped then, snapped out of his reverie by the mug of coffee that was being held in front of him, looking up just in time to see that now familiar wave of concern ghost across the shadows of House's face as he obligingly took the mug.

He couldn't help coloring slightly.

'Thanks.'

'Yeah, well just make sure you drink it this time,' muttered House as he limped past Wilson to throw himself down next to him on the couch, his worry, as always, coming out in his gruff tone of voice.

He hadn't bothered with all the pleasantries of offering food this time. Not even an Oreo. Because where, a week or two ago, that little snack had gotten Wilson to at least go through the motions of sustaining himself, now… well, now he barely touched a thing. Even something as insubstantial as a cup of coffee, tea, bloody _water_… he just didn't bother finishing them.

And though it only been a couple of weeks, House couldn't deny that Wilson looked like crap as a result. Those rosy cheeks that used to dimple ever so slightly whenever Wilson laughed, smiled… the mischievous twinkle in his eyes that could brighten House's darkest moods with just one, meaningful glance… at the moment,_ that_ Wilson was little more than a distant memory. Because the pallid, sallow man sat before him, dull eyes murky with neglect, ringed with dark shadows of fatigue… _this_ Wilson really was little more than a wasting, haunted shadow of his former self.

And with every passing day, every passing hour, it was all House could do stop himself from jumping up and shaking some life back into his comatose friend, screaming in Wilson's face to just _stop it_, to just _stop_ giving in so easily to this crappy life, to just _stop_ fading away so fucking quickly, so fucking _willingly,_ because my God it was just… it was just _shit._

It was shit, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

Perhaps mainly due to the fact that there was no puzzle here. There was no seemingly impenetrable mystery to solve. There was no gaping question to work out the answer to and set right again.

Because Wilson couldn't just be fixed with endless testing, the right diagnosis, the right treatment… the diagnosis was obvious. And there was no cure here. There never would be.

All either of them could do, all either of them could hope for, was for time to do the impossible and heal him as it passed idly by.

Despite the fact that, so far, Wilson appeared to be going worse, not better, the further time took him away from the night of his rape, much to House's dismay. It was clear to all and sundry that the more that shattering event became an inherent part of who Wilson was, the quicker he was drowning, weighed down by sheer despair, plummeting through the cold depths of this smothering mindset with nothing to grab hold of as the light above faded inevitably to black, tethered forever to the vile man who'd caused all this in the first place.

His world was crumbling, falling down about his ears, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it.

Because at the moment, at that very moment, Wilson couldn't help but feel that this was it. Two stagnant weeks would soon roll over into a month, six months, then a year… his life wouldn't stop just because he'd been forced to grind to a hopeless halt at the hands of a stranger. The world wouldn't stop turning for the sake of James Wilson. It most certainly wouldn't wait for him, would it?

Sickeningly, the cruel fact was that this feeling of complete exhaustion, this crushing feeling of constant humiliation, shame, embarrassment… this feeling of being slowly choked by life itself, bleeding him dry until he was no more, squeezing so unbearably hard, _suffocating_ him… this feeling was permanent. Whereas his symptoms would more than likely disappear with the end of his meds, this feeling was never going to go away.

_It was never going to go away._

The thought horrified him. And, strangely enough, it wasn't actually the thought itself that engulfed him in a kind of cold horror… no. It was the calm realization that went hand in hand with it, the automatic response that came to his battered mind immediately.

It was the innate knowledge that he didn't have to run forever.

Because he couldn't run forever. No one could.

Eventually, he would have to give up. He would have to give up running from the utter despair that was slowly catching up to him, that was slowly creeping in, and he would have to give up chasing the life that he'd been robbed of.

And when he did give up… oh, God would it be a relief.

Such a sweet, sweet relief.

Such a sweet, sweet release from this non-existence.

Wilson didn't register the hard lump in his throat until he realized that House was saying something, hands clammy and his voice unsteady when he looked quickly then to his best friend, his head spinning.

'S-sorry… what?'

_He could give up now if need be._

_It could be so easy._

'The team,' reiterated House patiently, probing blue eyes narrowing imperceptibly as he calmly held the positively terrified gaze of those familiarly strange chocolate eyes before him, sensing a significant shift in Wilson without the young Oncologist having to say a thing, 'They aren't going to lay off with the questioning. I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but… well, I think we're going to have to tell them sometime soon. They know I'm fine, and they're more interested in Uncle Wilson now than the actual patient. Even Taub's started meddling, and that's saying something considering he normally couldn't give a crap about our dear little work family.'

House knew he was treading territory that was nothing short of excruciating for Wilson, given that he still hadn't rang the Police yet. Therefore, logically, he was thoroughly expecting Wilson to react to this suggestion… at the very least, he expected his best friend to try and back out of it, and quite frantically so.

As the man who hadn't even been able to tell his best friend that he had depression, it seemed a perfectly rational expectation to have.

What he hadn't expected was this… a frighteningly distinct lack of any sort of immediate response.

Because Wilson didn't appear to have taken a single word of what he'd just said on board, still staring at him with such blatant dread that House couldn't help but know that the two of them were in different places entirely.

'Are you okay?'

It was a stupid question, yes, but it was out before he knew it, blurted fearfully from his lips around the same time he suddenly found Wilson's rather warm hand clutched beneath his, the Oncologist clinging on back to him like he'd fall away from him right there if he didn't hold on as tight as he could.

Wilson nodded, like he always did, despite feeling completely lost within his own battered mind, despite the tears that were pooling in his tired eyes… despite the fact that, less than a minute ago, he had honestly contemplated the merits of killing himself just to escape this dizzying rat maze that was his own head.

Oh, he was _fine. _Just peachy, really.

'You're not fucking _'peachy''_, came the tersely snapped reply from House, surprising Wilson with his newfound ability to read minds before he realized he must have said that out loud, closing his eyes and leaning gratefully forward into the coolness of House's hand that was now pressed against his hot forehead.

He really didn't feel 'peachy' now that he actually thought about it…

'Crap' was probably more like it.

Feverishly so.

'I don't think I'm well, House,' he mumbled exhaustedly, earning himself a sarcastic snort from his best friend as he suddenly found himself being pulled to his feet, clamping his mouth shut with the disorientating wave of sickness that washed hotly over him. If it hadn't been for House's arm around Wilson's waist, both men were pretty sure Wilson would have ended up on his ass just then.

'Oh, _you think?'_ retorted House, shaking his head as he practically dragged Wilson towards the bathroom, gritting his teeth the whole way against the ongoing protest from his leg in this whole sorry tale. He could happily murder two Vicodin pills, a tantalizing thought that had crossed his mind numerous times over the past two weeks.

'Jesus, Wilson - you're burning up,' he muttered, the younger Doctor feeling like a dead weight, human-shaped hot water bottle next to him. By now, his cheeks had rapidly began to flush, and it didn't take a top Diagnostician to work out that Wilson's previously low grade temp had now made the jolly transition into a raging bitch of a fever.

Saying that, it didn't take a boy wonder fucking Oncologist to figure out that not _sleeping_ for two weeks straight would more than likely give a mild temperature the boot it needed to hit triple figures, especially given that he was already well on his way to malnourishment and dehydration if he didn't get his act together soon.

'Fuck me, like we needed _this_ on top of everything else,' berated House angrily, ignoring the knot of concern in his stomach and unceremoniously dumping a listless Wilson on the toilet seat before he turned to get the bath running, the water bursting forth for a split second before he'd whirled back round again to face the sorry mess that was, up until recently, the most level headed man he knew. Well, on the surface he had been anyway.

Wilson had certainly been the_ sensible_ one, at any rate.

'You're a fucking Department Head, Wilson. A _Department Head_, and the best damn Department Head I know. I'm not stupid, I know damn well that you haven't slept a fucking wink during the night for two weeks running now – how the hell was that going to help anyone? Why didn't you just let me sleep in the same room as you like I offered? Because now, idiot, you're burning up right in front of me and you can't even keep a glass of fucking _water_ down without chucking it back up again. I'm trying my best here, Wilson, I really am, but my God you're doing a damn good job of getting yourself admitted to hospital.'

Wilson said nothing for a moment as he held his pounding head in his hands, his voice practically a growl when he tiredly surmised exactly what he thought of that little outburst from behind closed eyes:

'I don't _care.'_

Three words that can mean so little or so much, sometimes at the same time.

Three words that can mean nothing more than the simple fuelling of a petty argument in their blatant disregard of another's point of view, or in turn can offer an invaluable insight into the numbed mindset of your best friend.

Three words that, right now, served to halt House in his fraught tirade caused entirely by anxiety-ridden frustration at the pieces Wilson had been scattered into, pieces that House knew he was completely failing to pick up and put back together again here.

The man he called his best friend was like stranger to him at the moment.

'You don't mean that,' he sighed eventually, knowing in his heart even as he uttered that response that Wilson, frighteningly, had probably never been more serious in his life.

'And_ you_ don't mean _that_,' muttered Wilson right on cue, more to himself than anything, still knowing House better than anybody despite being in the throes of a fever that, right now, was seeing him shiver quite uncontrollably as he curled into himself away from House's stare, a stare that he just knew would be nothing short of accusing.

A stare that he just knew would break him if he looked up now.

Christ… he didn't need this.

He didn't need to see his own failure written all over House's face.

He didn't need to see the disappointment, the concern, the pity, the fear, the responsibility, the guilt, the helplessness, the unyielding protectiveness, the anger, the simmering fury for the owner of those cold, grey eyes that haunted every one of Wilson's thoughts, fury Wilson inherently knew would flow true from House given half a chance to see that devastating stranger erased from this world, the associated guilt of which continued to splinter painfully through Wilson every single day…

He didn't need to see any of it.

And he didn't need this stupid damn _bath_, either.

'And where the fuck do you think you're going?' barked House as Wilson took it upon himself to messily try and get up from the toilet seat, only to find himself easily shoved back down again with House's hand firmly gripping his shoulder, much to his annoyance.

'House, get _off-_'

'NO!' yelled House, the faint symphony of uncharacteristically obvious panic that threaded through every level of his voice as it echoed around the bathroom, the apartment, suitably surprising both of them with the intensity of that one word.

They both knew it was nothing to do with Wilson's reluctance to get in the lukewarm bath, despite it being the best medical course of action to bring his fever down quickly.

'No,' repeated House, softly this time, held captive by the huge brown eyes that were, thankfully, staring up at him right now with a mixture of defiance, fear and… relief? He couldn't put his finger on it, turning away from the gut-wrenching truth that sat before him to turn the water off, before sitting himself down on the edge of the tub next to Wilson. The silence that inevitably descended was both relieving and completely exposing, leaving House no choice but to take a deep breath and say what he had to say before he talked himself out of it.

'I'm gonna say this once, and once only,' he said quietly, staring intently at his interlocked fingers and avoiding Wilson's gaze as he tried in vain to come up with a way of softening what he was trying to say here.

In the end, much as he usually did, he just came out with it.

'I don't know if you've thought about this, or if you're thinking about it right now, but… but all I know is that it takes something a lot less than getting raped to push people over the edge. It doesn't take much to persuade someone to just… end it all.'

House's blood ran cold when he heard Wilson's breathing tellingly hitch then, closing his eyes briefly against the tightness in his throat before looking up to stare directly at his quite clearly terrified best friend, his best friend who had just practically confirmed what House had dreaded all along.

This conversation, this whole mind-blowing scenario, was nothing short of surreal.

Surreally fucked up.

Big time.

'Wilson, I'm sorry, but if you think I'm gonna just let you go and off yourself, then you've got another thing coming.'

It was out before House knew it, a fantastically insensitive statement that fell from his mouth in an almost disbelieving snort, born entirely of the near hysterical laughter he could feel working its way up horribly from the cold pit of his stomach, despite the telltale burn behind his stricken eyes.

He never had understood how laughing in the face of pure terror did any human any good in any sort of situation. It served no useful evolutionary purpose to have_ laughter_ come as the natural reaction to frightening experiences.

And yet here he was, Gregory House MD, feeling like he was about to simultaneously piss himself laughing and vomit profusely at the cheerful news that his best friend, the person he cherished most in this shitty, shitty life, the person who meant absolutely everything to him, was, in fact, suicidal.

All whilst knowing that he had never, in all his life, been more scared than he was now.

He couldn't even work out if that was cruel irony or just plain stupidity.

'House-' began Wilson hesitantly, cut off almost immediately by House once more as he continued in his tirade that was rapidly descending, as expected, from disbelief into indignant anger.

'Oh, and you can rest assured that I'll be right there behind you if you manage it, sunshine. You can bet your bottom fucking _dollar_ I'll be right there.'

Wilson felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, the tone of House's voice nothing short of vicious as he virtually hissed that last sentiment at him, a sentiment that had never even entered Wilson's mind but now seemed so stupidly obvious a reaction from House that he now felt about three inches tall.

'That's not fair,' he whispered shakily, utterly ashamed that he just couldn't stop the trembling of his lower lip as he tried so hard to stave off the tears that were welling once more, flinching with the look that House threw him then, an incredulous look laced with such pure rage that he could barely maintain eye contact with the angered Diagnostician.

'Not fair?' repeated House furiously, blue eyes blazing as he pushed himself up from the edge of the tub to stare down intimidatingly at Wilson, 'Not fucking _fair?_ No, what's not fair, Wilson, is coming home from work one night to find your best friend lying on the floor, having just been _raped_, and barely fucking _alive_. What's not fair is knowing that it's all your fault, 'cause if you'd just done the right thing for once, you would have been home on time to kick seven shades of _shite_ out of any bastard who threatened your best friend in any way, never mind fucking _raping_ him. What's not fair is sitting here for what seems like forever, watching the person your world practically fucking _revolves_ around slowly wasting away to nothing as he falls deeper and deeper into his own fucked up head, until he convinces himself that he'd be better off, that _I'd _be better off, if he _killed himself_.'

'House, _please!_'

House was shouting now, not giving a crap that Wilson was on the brink of breaking down right there in front of him, not giving a crap that he was pleading with House to stop, only knowing the aching pain that had engulfed him with the realization that Wilson might not be here tomorrow, next week, next month, next year… the pain in his leg had paled into insignificance with the torrent of chilling fear that swallowed him whole, his voice growing hoarse with the yelling that he couldn't hold back from.

'What's _not fair_, Wilson, is coming home from work one day to find the only person you give a damn about slumped in the bathroom, long gone with the empty bottle of pills lying next to him. What's _not fair_ is walking next door into your best friend's office to find him sleeping on the couch, only realizing when he won't _fucking _wake up that he's _dead_. What's _not fair_ is hearing that damn gunshot ringing off every god damn wall in that hospital, and knowing, even before you find him, even before you seen his brains blown out all over some fucking _ceiling_, that you've just lost the only thing you value in this world. What's _not fair_ is opening my front door to the fucking vision of _you_ hanging from some fucking belt, or rope, or wire, or.. or _something_, just.. just_ swinging_ there, dead, _gone_, and expecting me to just carry on like nothing's changed, like you don't even fucking _matter!' _

His strangled voice caught horribly on that last word, the silence broken only by House's heavy breathing as he stared hard at a silenced Wilson, who was as white as a sheet by this point. What he wanted to say, in his usual snappy tone, was 'Wilson, get in the bath – once your fever breaks you obviously won't be talking this utter _crap _anymore.'

What came out was nothing like that. In fact, it was nothing at all, for the simple reason that House was frighteningly certain that Wilson would think no differently once his temperature was back down to normal again.

It was a fact that, for once, had left him totally lost for words, whereupon he tore his gaze from Wilson to cast a last, hateful glance at the useless, filled tub before turning his back on both it and his crushed best friend to limp painfully from the room.

For his part, Wilson felt much like he had done that night a couple of weeks ago when House had found him on the floor of their Condo – broken, exposed and overwhelmingly lonely.

Numbingly so.

All the while yearning so desperately for House to find him amidst the ruins of his life and never, ever let him go.


	14. And I Don't Want The World To See Me

Hi everyone! A belated Christmas prezzie for

you :) Hope you had a lovely Christmas - thought

I'd post this in time for New Year! Thank you

again for reading and reviewing this, it really does

mean a lot. I hope you all have a Happy New

Year and 2013 brings you all you hope for :) xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>And I don't want the world to see me,<em>

'_Cause I don't think that they'd understand…_

_When everything's made to be broken,_

_I just want you to know who I am,_

_I just want you to know who I am,_

_I just want you to know who I am…_

_I just want you to know who I am.'_

{Goo Goo Dolls: Iris}

-[H]-

'_Damn it!'_

Wilson's heart sank guiltily at the incensed curse that he heard House hiss under his breath from down the hallway, his already churning stomach clenching horribly as he made his way slowly from the bathroom towards the dimly lit bedroom, where House had been clashing around ever since he'd stormed out on a bewildered Wilson around forty minutes earlier.

Wilson hadn't known what to do then, lost as he was. Oh, he'd known what he'd _wanted_ to do… what he'd wanted to do, desperately, unashamedly, was to get up and follow House to wherever he'd ended up and do whatever it took to make it all better again. In an almost child-like leap of logic, born entirely of his recently intensified dependency on this one, lone man, Wilson undoubtedly knew he would have done anything, literally anything, to have House back on side again, to have the only person he needed in this fucked up mess, in this fucked up world, stood with him again, anchoring him through this living hell.

The adult in him, the House-monitor, the House-carer, the House-equal, however, had thought on, ruthlessly quashing that vulnerably childish, almost primal, instinct despite it running so strongly through him that it was almost painful. No, the adult in him, the Oncologist turned unwilling patient, the near-suicidal rape victim, the consumer of fever-causing meds, the still possible petri dish of sexually transmitted infections, had decided to take the only safe course of action that seemed to be available to him at that point, whereupon he'd somehow managed to strip off and exhaustedly drag his sorry ass into the now tepid water to just lie there, dizzily nauseous again and willing the fever to go down, finishing off what House had started even if his best friend was nowhere to be seen.

_The best friend who's nowhere to be seen for a reason, dumbass._

_The best friend you're about to take down with you._

_The best friend you really, really don't deserve._

It was an onslaught of vicious self-doubts that continued to plague Wilson even now as each careful step took him closer towards House, a balancing hand guiding him along the wall, the bath having helped his fever a little, but not much. It had done nothing for the nausea, or the head spinning, or the suspicion that his legs were about to give way beneath him, and it was with a dry mouth and the constant urge to gag that Wilson couldn't help but fear that this clean, white t-shirt was not destined to stay clean, or white, for much longer.

He was so tired of feeling like this, so tired full stop, that he could have fallen to his knees right there in the hallway and wept.

Because Wilson hated this. And he_ hated_ being sick. Above all else, above headaches, diarrhea, fatigue… above all else he _hated_ vomiting, and had done since he was little. His job hadn't helped in lifting that fear. If anything it had only reinforced it, nausea and vomiting one of the end of life symptoms that could be so difficult to get under control, he knew. He'd seen first hand the drain it had on each of his patients at some point or other, particularly with those who had fallen victim to the likes of gastro-intestinal cancers, and he made sure to do his damn hardest to be hot on the prescriptions of anti-emetics for any patient of his who complained of even the slightest sickly feeling.

He made sure because he knew what it was to be so scared of vomiting that you'd do anything to avoid it, changing your breathing, counting in your head, trying to take your mind off it and the toilet you know in your heart you'll end up chucking up into, and consequently being able to think of nothing else, that hot spike of queasiness growing ever stronger in your stomach as it works its way up your throat…

To have that feeling plaguing you permanently… it was just exhausting.

And whenever Wilson did find himself inevitably on the bathroom floor, shakily hugging the toilet, all he ever longed for, like always, like most people, was his bed. His warm, soft bed where he could wrap up and fall sleep until it all went away.

And now he couldn't even have that thanks to the evil, evil bastard who'd made real what had previously been nothing more than an imagined horror, a horror that would never happen to him, surely.

And yet it had.

And all it took was a fleeting, pointless 'don't think about it' before he was back there again, like he was always going to be, getting brutally pummeled into the back of his own couch, in his own cozily lit living room, the echoes of those fisted, calloused hands as they'd beaten him so cruelly to his own wooden floor rushing over him now with every sickened breath, his own arms trapped beneath him with the crushing weight of this sweaty intruder, whose foul breath had been so stickily hot as he'd breathed so heavily down Wilson's neck in perverted anticipation of what, unbeknownst to Wilson, was still to come, hissing vile words that had frozen him with the cold, unnatural, unmistakable feel of that knife edge, trapping him there for what he'd then come to realize, with unprecedented terror, what was now inevitable as he'd felt the insistent tugging of his belt, his pants, his underwear, any helpless attempt to shout out, to scream, to move blocked with the dirty hand, the dirty _body,_ of this heaving stranger as he'd so easily forced Wilson's trembling legs apart with his knee, that same tremor shattering his stammered voice as he'd weakly begged for it all to stop, begged for this masked man to please, please not go there, he _couldn't_ go there, but he didn't listen, he didn't _want _to listen, he didn't care and he.. he…

He was going to be sick.

House hadn't even known Wilson was there until he heard a low moan from the hallway, dropping the pillow that was the last touch to the newly made bed and limping quickly to the bedroom doorway, where he caught a lasting glimpse of Wilson tumbling messily back into the bathroom again, already heaving.

He hadn't been able to face Wilson after what gone down in the bathroom before. He couldn't. Anger just hadn't cut it when it came to describing the feeling that had him so fucking furious, because it was so much more. He'd faintly recognized that bottomless pit of cold grief that seemed to hollow you from the inside out, constricting his throat, simmering away behind tired eyes, helpless to do anything but take it out on the bed as he'd ripped the bedclothes off of it, his dirty clothes as he'd whipped them from all over the floor to practically slam them into the laundry basket, the bedside table that he'd kicked hard in protest at this crappy, crappy world, leaving him with nothing but a sore toe on his right foot, like that damn leg wasn't messed up enough as it was. Because it was a thoroughly, well-established fact that he did_ not_ do change well.

And why should he?

Wilson was his constant, his base, his go-to man for anything he needed in every area of his life, the single person in a lifetime of people that had solidly stuck by him no matter what, always looking out for him, always doing his best for him, always standing up for him when no one else would.

Put simply, he was his best friend.

To have that change in any way at all just wasn't a possibility for House.

To have any of that change in the most devastating way possible, to lose it all completely, to lose _Wilson_ completely…

No.

_No._

Unsurprisingly, despite wanting to shake Wilson so hard that he'd make that stupid, stupid idea fall right out of his head, despite wanting to throttle him with his own bare hands, House didn't think twice about going to him now, the wholly expected pangs of guilt for his earlier outburst resonating through his chest when he found Wilson slumped at the toilet, leaning over it with his forehead resting in the palms of his hands, his trembling fingers raking anxiously through hair that hadn't seen a brush for days now, trying so desperately to stave of the inevitable with slow, deep breathing, with the closing of his eyes, shivering so hard under a clammy sweat that he was inadvertently making the urge to gag even worse.

It was a scenario that House had walked in on time and time again over the past week or so, the sight of his usually composed best friend so depleted never getting any easier to bear witness to, no matter how many times this had happened now.

'We'll be on first name terms with this toilet soon,' commented House quietly, slowly lowering himself down to take his usual seat on the edge of the tub where he could stretch his leg out and stay with Wilson for as long as he needed him to, apprehensively watching the younger Doctor on the floor at his feet.

Wilson couldn't really say anything back to that immediately, seeing as he couldn't bring himself to open his mouth just then for fear of throwing up, knowing how pathetic he was being but really not giving a crap at that point for how he looked. It took a couple of minutes, and a couple of failed attempts, before he could mumble something that was nothing short of unintelligible to House.

'Jesus, speak up will you? I've heard mice fart louder than that.'

Even with his head halfway down the toilet bowl, feeling like utter crap, a somewhat irritated Wilson couldn't help the mental eye roll.

'I said,' he began faintly, taking a couple of uncertain breaths before carrying on, 'I said you don't have to _stay_.'

He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes and look up to House then, the cold dread for his friend's honest as always answer that sat heavy in his stomach doing nothing to help his so far successful attempt to stave off the vomiting.

He didn't want House to go, no matter what he said.

Of course he didn't want House to go.

'You'd have no one to hold your hair back for you if I _didn't_ stay,' pointed out House carefully, helpfully useless as always, at last earning himself a sideways glance from an obviously exhausted Wilson that gave House just enough time to offer him a reassuring smirk from above, all the while, tellingly, having moved not an inch further towards the doorway.

It was a small, but definite, exchange that lifted the laden atmosphere slightly, both men choosing to stay comfortably silent until Wilson finally felt ready to slowly kneel back from the toilet, where he took a deep, shaken breath before settling back against the wall, the tiles cool on the back of his shoulders and head as he reluctantly met the searching gaze of his best friend at long last.

House didn't usually sugar-coat any opinion he had to offer, and the fact that Wilson was clearly struggling to find his way through this endless hell wasn't about to change that, sharp blue eyes boring into the huge, brown wells that wearily held him.

'Well, it's official. You look like shit,' he declared, absently rubbing his thigh as he took in the pale heap of lethargic Oncologist that was his best friend, who tiredly cut in before House could really get going with the Wilsonesque lecture that was on the tip of his tongue.

'Of course I look like shit. In case you hadn't noticed, I've had my head stuck down this _stupid_ toilet for the best part of a week now, vomiting Christ knows what 'cause I've hardly eaten a thing – apologies for not staying _pretty_ enough for you while I did that!'

House couldn't suppress the surge of frustrated exasperation that flared within him at that point, biting back before he had a chance to process what was coming out of his mouth.

'Yeah, and the only way you're going to get _back_ to being pretty-boy number one is if you close your eyes and _sleep_, Wilson!' he snapped back immediately, his tone sharp as he folded his arms in an almost mirror image of Wilson as he too curled his legs up and defensively crossed his arms from the floor, throwing House a sulky glance before looking down to mumble sullenly into his lap:

'I'm _not_ pretty-boy number one.'

'No, you're not – 'cause you look like shit,' reiterated House emphatically, deliberately antagonizing Wilson and sighing with ill-disguised annoyance, 'if you recall, I _did_ say that a minute ago before you went all bitchy on me. Now stop deflecting, pretty-boy-who's-not-so-pretty-anymore, and admit, just this once, that maybe I'm right and you need to _sleep_. You're driving yourself crazy here. You know you are.'

It didn't take a genius to know where this was all headed, and Wilson, despite wanting so badly to do just that and curl up in bed to get a full eight hours rest, was terrified. He was mortified at the hot, defeated tears that pricked bitterly at the corners of his eyes then, a great wave of dread crashing over him as he stared at his lap, biting his lip hard against the sobs that choked him.

Because he was so overwhelmingly ashamed that he'd been reduced to this. The youngest ever Head of Oncology at PPTH, and here he was trying not to break down crying on House's bathroom floor, mourning, like always, for his old life, his life before that unimaginably awful night, a simple life where something as natural, as _vital,_ as a peaceful sleep was taken for granted.

He'd never take sleep for granted again.

Just like he'd never take being safe in his own home for granted again.

It wasn't until he felt House lightly squeezing his shoulder that Wilson looked up, startled to find his best friend crouching in front of him despite the ongoing pain of his leg, his voice a soft assurance when he spoke.

'He can't hurt you here. No one can. I won't let them, Wilson, I promised you that. I'll always promise you that, no matter what I say in the heat of the moment.'

Maybe it was the completely unusual rationality of that sentiment, maybe it was the undying commitment that weaved through every syllable, through every unknowingly tender whorl of those blue eyes, he didn't know – all Wilson knew was that he was barely managing to hold it all together as he swiped furiously at the tears that spilled over then, clearly restless in the corner he felt trapped in, a corner that he wanted so desperately to escape from, a corner that he'd never wanted to stay sat in more.

Was it really so wrong, so awful, to want to evaporate into tiny, invisible pieces and just… float away?

God, what he'd give to be able to just shut his eyes and escape it all.

Maybe not forever.

He wasn't allowed to have forever. House had seen to that.

But just for a bit.

'Come on,' asked House of him softly, tentatively offering his hand to the wrecked man before him, 'come and get some sleep.'

It took both of them a little by surprise when Wilson finally conceded to House's request and reached out to cautiously take the Diagnostician's proffered hand, using it to unsteadily pull himself up with him.

Wilson knew before he was even fully to his feet that that simple motion had just tipped him over the edge, his heart dropping and the nausea crashing over him in an almighty wave a moment later that had him retching before he knew it, stomach-heaving retches that saw nothing more than water and bile come up at this point as he lurched for the toilet, echoing retches that brought him to his knees once more in a fruitless bid to alleviate the familiar spasms of aching cramp that tore though his abdomen as he heaved, his head killing him as the little room spun in a sickly blur that forced his disorientated eyes shut yet again.

His world tilted on its axis anyway, his grip on the toilet seat white-knuckled as he clung to it, realizing somewhere that he was being propped up by House as he fought to get back to a feeling that remotely resembled normal.

Wilson just couldn't muster the energy to give a shit for the sad fact that he was silently sobbing now, even more so when he felt the warm weight of House's arm coming to rest around his shoulders as his best friend more than lived up to that title in hunkering down on the floor next to him to wait for the retching to subside again, his leg be damned.

'M'sorry,' whispered Wilson eventually, exhaustedly hanging his head and keeping his eyes closed as he breathed deeply in a last ditch attempt to will this bastard nausea away, not surprised in the least when it resolutely stayed put.

Neither, it seemed, was House.

'You're not stopping the meds, no matter how many times we have to do this,' he declared quietly, not needing to see Wilson's face to know what he'd be thinking, the stopping of those meds a sure fire, thoroughly tempting, way of ending the associated nausea, 'Even if I have to take you to a hospital, I won't let them stop those meds. I'm your attending. I'll take you to PPTH to get my way if I have to.'

'You're not… admitting me… _anywhere_,' breathed Wilson slowly from behind closed eyes, certain that he'd rather stay on this stupid, swaying floor forever more than face the pitying, disbelieving stares of his colleagues once they learned of the reason for his being there in the first place.

God, even the thought of it made him cringe horribly. He couldn't bare that. He _wouldn't_ bare that.

'Wilson, you're my patient. I promised you two weeks ago that I wouldn't admit you, but I told you then I wouldn't be taking any chances either. Not with you. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is. You're staying on these meds, and if that means you're going to keep vomiting with a fever, then you need IV fluids at the very least. And an anti-emetic. I haven't got any of them here, and if Cuddy sees the state you're in then she'll have you admitted no matter what any of us say. You know she will.'

'She didn't.. she didn't last time,' muttered Wilson distractedly as he tried his hardest to not retch again right there and then, referring back to that night two weeks ago, the first time in his life he'd required the use of Midazolam, a drug previously known to him for relieving anxiety and agitation in his patient's only.

'Last time you weren't close to malnourishment and dehydration thanks to a kick-ass fever and non-stop chucking your guts up,' pointed out House firmly, knowing he was only voicing what Wilson already knew at heart, 'Last time you were behaving exactly as expected given the circumstances, hence the meds Cuddy brought with her. To have you hospitalized would have made things a whole lot worse, not better. You weren't sick then, not like you are now. She can't bring everything here, Wilson. Cyclizine, saline, a drip stand, cannulas… if she authorized that, it'd be more than her job's worth.'

There was a beat of terse silence before Wilson spoke up.

'Well.. well what about you?' he asked shakily, looking up at House now as he grew evermore frantic, 'You could do it, you've gotten away with worse in the past!'

'Yeah, when my patient wasn't _you_, and they were in a hospital bed surrounded by Doctors and Nurses watching them twenty four hours a day!' shot back House exasperatedly, hating himself for this but knowing that a thoroughly panicked Wilson was long overdue a hospital admission considering the state he was in. He was already pushing it by not relenting on the meds, and mean as that made House feel at the moment, he couldn't have Wilson run a higher chance than necessary of contracting HIV thanks to his rapist. He just couldn't.

Hence the catch 22 situation they were currently right in the middle of, a ridiculously obvious situation that House knew he should have foreseen but, perhaps stupidly, hadn't.

He could diagnose a rare disease from the vaguest of symptoms, relentlessly work out each and every complex puzzle that arrived at his door in the form of yet another nuisance patient, could predict the likely course of action of hundreds of different conditions, and yet fail, quite spectacularly, to predict what would happen if you treated your best friend at home who was eating and drinking very little, who wasn't sleeping properly, who was out of his mind with fear and self-loathing, and who, to top it all, was in the middle of a course of vicious prophylactics that used his body like a kids' playground.

Anybody could have seen where all this was headed, before it had gotten to the stage where hospitalization was seeming more and more like the most sensible option here.

Because now it was a case of either following his head in admitting Wilson, where he could receive the proper treatment he needed and be home again in no time with all the meds he needed to remain somewhat comfortable for the rest of the prophylactic course, or following his heart in finding some way of getting hold of the meds and equipment that would let Wilson stay here, in the privacy of the apartment, while he got well enough to face others again when he was ready and only then. On his own terms.

'I can't go in, House,' pleaded Wilson desperately, knowing he'd be recognized in any of the local hospitals as PPTH's Head of Oncology, knowing how word would soon get back on the grapevine to his own colleagues, word of him being on prophylactics, of why he was on them in the place…

_Because he was raped… _

_No… _

_Oh my God, you're kidding?_

_Honestly…_

_Christ, poor man…_

_Poor thing…_

_Poor Doctor Wilson…_

_Why would someone do that?_

_Would they do it for no reason?_

_Surely not._

_You're saying it was somehow his fault?_

_Could be._

_That's what I heard…_

_He's a man, it's not like someone could just pin him down, is it?_

_But what if they did?_

What if that's exactly what happened?

They'd never know. They'd always be guessing, wondering what happened, never looking past it, never seeing _him_ again, seeing only a broken man who had been violated via the most shameful, soul shattering means…

He was now first and foremost, in the eyes of others, in his _own_ eyes, a rape victim.

And pity would surely follow him for the rest of his time at PPTH.

Wilson couldn't hold back the gasped sob that burst forth from him then, shaking under the arm that pulled him into the warm hold of his best friend, holding him so tightly as he broke down, hugging him just as he had done when he'd found him broken and battered on the condo floor that fateful night after work that seemed so long ago now.

And this… well, it was breaking House's heart all over again.

'Please…' begged Wilson breathlessly into the familiar contours of House's chest as he curled into him, his voice hoarse with the helpless tears and cold fear of a truly desperate man, 'please, House, just.. just get someone to bring it all here. Anyone. Just don't take me to hospital. Don't tell Cuddy. _Please_. I can't face them, House. I can't.'

It became clear to both of them then, particularly House, that Wilson was, and always would be, his weak point.

Because House found himself saying 'okay' as soon as Wilson stopped speaking, the Oncologist sagging with visible relief in his arms as they sat there together on the cold bathroom floor, silent but for the weak breaths and swallowed moans of the younger man as he let his head fall heavily to House's shoulder, still nauseous as ever with the tiled walls of the bathroom going into free fall as the room lurched before his unfocused eyes…

'Cameron, it's me. I need you to come over here and bring some stuff with you. You tell a soul about this and I'll have your career nose dive before it's even off the ground, you got that?'

For his part, Wilson hadn't even felt House rooting for his cell, much less hear House dial her number… he hadn't really heard anything save the rush of blood that thundered in his ears as he registered that he was suddenly very, very hot and very, very dizzy.

A bit like last time, actually.

He vaguely pondered that there had been no need for the harsh words directed at Cameron there – she was a nice enough girl, after all – before his lolling head crashed once more into House's shoulder and he gladly passed out, the limp Oncologist propped up now by House alone as he shifted quickly to hang on to the scarily pale, lifeless form of his best friend.

If he sounded a tad anxious to his ex-fellow, he didn't really give a shit.

He didn't really have time to.


	15. I Just Don't Want To Miss You Tonight

Hi everyone!

Long time no see, my apologies :S Hope you

haven't lost too much interest in this fic,

and thank you to those who have stuck

with it! Hope you enjoy xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>And I'd give up forever to touch you, 'cause I know that you feel me somehow.<em>

_You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be, and I don't want to go home right now._

_And all I can taste is this moment… all I can breathe is your life._

_When sooner or later it's over… I just don't want to miss you tonight.'_

{The Goo Goo Dolls: Iris}

-[H]-

'Do I really want to know why you've dragged me out of work, in the middle of the night, on the pretense that _I'm_ sick, with a car full of illegally swiped meds and hospital equipment?'

Allison Cameron's tone was reproachful, resigned and yet somewhat relieved as she finally, after two weeks of knowing precisely nothing, found herself facing the only man she would do this for at his front door, the pair of them tiredly, but firmly, standing their ground in getting the other to accept that neither of them were going to back down here.

She was not going to hand over the meds if House didn't at least bring her into the picture a bit.

He was not going to tell Cameron a jot about Wilson – ideally, he wanted to take the meds and shut the door in her face so he could get on with the more pressing matter at hand of hooking his deteriorating best friend up to some much needed fluids.

Unluckily for House, Cameron, like the other ducklings, had worked out long ago that Wilson was the Department Head who was sick, and not their egotistical boss. She could walk away with these meds right now if she wanted to, and they both knew it. It wasn't the most important person in her life who needed them, after all.

'They're for Wilson,' offered House eventually, choosing his words carefully, 'he's sick and doesn't want to be admitted. Understandable, really – I wouldn't want you lot gawping like idiots at me either.'

Cameron raised a skeptical eyebrow, seeing straight through the insult that thinly veiled that clear half-truth.

'So you both decided it would be more convenient to just put my job, my _license_, on the line instead? You, I'd believe that of. Wilson – no. I'm sorry, but if all he needs are fluids and Cyclizine, then he's obviously vomiting a lot, can't keep fluids down, and needs them IV instead to prevent dehydration. He could be in and out of hospital within a few days for that, and you both know it. There's something you're not telling me, for whatever reason, and I don't think it's fair that you risk my career without even telling me why. So what the hell am I doing here, House?'

House stared at the defiant blonde, breaking eye contact only for a moment to lean himself against the open door and take some weight off his leg, his gaze roaming quickly to the coveted bag of meds she clutched tightly, before he wearily regarded her once more.

He didn't have a choice.

If Wilson was to get the treatment he needed, then he'd have to tell her.

He'd have to tell her everything.

'Wilson was raped,' sighed House bitterly, his stomach turning as the vile words that should never have been a reality left his mouth, 'Some bastard knocked on our door a couple of weeks back. He didn't stand a chance. I found him unconscious on the floor when I got home. I called Cuddy, she came over with the kit, I examined him and he's been with me ever since. Now is that explanation enough or do you want a step-by-step analysis?'

He couldn't find it in him to say it in any more detail than that, hoping she'd sense his gruff reluctance to elaborate any further in the sarcastic tone of his voice. He couldn't put into words the utter carnage, the cold horror, that had assaulted every one of his senses as soon as his foot had slid in that congealing, blooming slick of Wilson's blood. Wilson's vomit. That tangy, cloying, iron smell that had seemed to seep into the very core of him, clogging his nostrils, his throat, choking him. The devastating sight of Wilson collapsed on the floor in a torn heap, stripped almost bare and so horribly pale beneath the blossoming purple bruises and streaks of dried blood that the tears had fallen away so goddamn easily. Wilson's body so, so cold beneath his touch, his breaths so shallow, a precious sound so swallowed by the panicked thunder of blood that had rushed in House's ears, that he'd thought, for a split, shattering second, that Wilson was dead.

It was the most frightening moment of his life.

And it had haunted him every single day since.

'You've… you've got him on… you've got him on prophylactics, I take it?'

Cameron's shaken questioning was barely more than a horrified whisper, and yet it cut through the trail blaze of destruction that assaulted House's memory as effectively as any startled cry could have, his eyes burning as he locked gazes with his ashen-faced ex-fellow and nodded.

It was to her credit that she didn't ask him any questions then, or make any stupid remarks, or lay on the pity party for Wilson, and House was eternally grateful. He could see in the unshed tears of her shining eyes the absolute revulsion for the man who'd done this to Wilson, compassion reeling off her in waves for her ex-boss and his best friend, and the steadfast determination to help bring about a return to normality for two colleagues and friends she respected and cared for hugely.

It was a grounded response to a wholly mind-blowing revelation that had torn them all to pieces, and House, not for the first time, silently thanked his lucky stars that he'd hired Allison Cameron as one of his fellows in the first place.

'And that's what's making him sick,' concluded Cameron quietly, ignoring the too-quick thumping of her heart as she pieced together this whole sorry tale for herself, feeling sick to the stomach but knowing quite well that her feelings amounted to nothing in comparison to what House must be feeling here.

She couldn't even imagine what Wilson was going through, understanding immediately just why he didn't want to be admitted anywhere. The reason in the first place for his admission would have to be established, he'd have to give a truthful patient history somewhere along the line… they all knew the damage a non-accurate patient history could do, and if it wasn't just the prophylactics making him sick it was a chance that Wilson couldn't afford to take. He would have to tell someone other than House that he'd been raped. And eventually, inevitably, he would surely be mentioned, talked about, discussed in every Doctor's lounge, at every Nurse's station, in every Janitor's closet, every staff toilet, every lift, every stairwell, in the corridor, cafeteria, car park… what if his patient's got wind of it? Had he even told his family?

Would he ever tell his family?

Probably not.

After all, the person he wanted through all this, the only person he needed, as usual, was House.

And he was already in the thick of it.

Doctor James Wilson, the well respected, youngest ever Head of Oncology, would be judged, shied away from, and pitied in equal measure through no fault of his own, losing his identity in the process and probably losing himself somewhere along the line too.

It was little wonder House had called her with his request to fleece the ER in a last ditch attempt to spare Wilson the indignity of it all, and Cameron, despite her initial irritation with the pair, couldn't help but now feel glad that he had. House's schemes might be absolute madness at the best of times, but she knew quite well that he always did it for the best of his patients, hospital policies and protocol be damned. The fact that his current patient was none other than his best friend was obviously only going to serve to intensify that wild streak in him… he wouldn't stop until he had Wilson back on form again, no matter how much it cost him.

He'd sacrifice everything for Wilson if need be.

Everything.

'Here,' she instructed quietly, calmly getting herself together to reach into the bag and pull out the saline and giving set, holding it out for her unsettlingly helpless ex-boss, 'you get that ready while I do the rest. Where is he?'

'I got him to the bedroom,' sighed House, taking the bag and stepping back to let her in before clicking the door shut behind her, 'He passed out in the bathroom when I called you before – he's hardly had anything to eat or drink for two weeks now, anything he does eat just comes back up again, and he's running a fever. Plus he's not sleeping at all through the night 'cause he's shit scared. I half dragged him, half walked him to my bed. He barely made it. He's.. Wilson, he's.. he's not good, Cameron.'

His voice caught on that last part, leaning heavily on the door and closing his eyes briefly with the tired tears that welled there suddenly, the sight of such blatant emotion, from a man who was usually nothing short of severe in all social aspects of his life, completely disconcerting for Cameron.

She'd never seen her usually purposefully unemotional, sarky, indiscrete, brash ex-boss so openly vulnerable. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, sunk exhaustedly into the shadows of his face, the worry for his best friend etched hard into every contour. And yet it didn't actually surprise her in the least to find him like this. They all knew that Wilson was the one part of House's life that actually mattered to him, that he actually cared about… she'd go as far to say that it was the one part of his life that he loved dearly. Wilson was House's other half, the one man who provided everything House had never had from his own family… he was everything.

To have that snatched from right under your nose, so cruelly, was just beyond comprehension. It was little wonder he was finding it hard to cope.

Her heart went out to him. To them both.

And yet she could make an educated guess that a hug would most likely not go down well here. This was still Gregory House MD, Head of Diagnostics and detester of openly expressed emotion, after all.

'I'll meet you in there,' suggested Cameron quietly, offering him a small smile in a bid of reassurance before turning to make her way carefully towards the bedroom, hearing House shuffle to the kitchen behind her where he could get himself together somewhat under the pretense of running the fluids through the line.

She'd seen that look every day in the eyes of her patient's relatives – anxious, scared out of their minds, helpless and totally exhausted. A ten minute break certainly never erased all that emotion, it didn't undo the neglect that they'd subjected themselves to since their relative had been rushed into the ER, but it did equip them to carry on until their relative, her patient, was stable enough for them to relax a little, to sigh with cautious relief.

Yes, a quick coffee could mean the difference between staying strong for their loved one, or breaking down on the spot. It was an insight that all medical and nursing staff were aware of, and one that she knew House would be appreciative of at this moment in time, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Whether Wilson would be, Cameron wasn't so sure.

'Wilson?'

Her call was soft as she peeked around the door, despite the feeling that her heart was slowly pounding its way into her throat. She didn't have a clue what to expect, having never really known Wilson outside of the Head of Oncology/House handler capacity she was used to in work.

To see her senior colleague vulnerable due to sickness was one thing. To see him so completely cut open thanks to a personal violation of the cruelest means was quite another, her intrusion into the bedroom causing her to blush slightly with the invasion of his privacy as her eyes fell to the mess that was the bed.

As it was, she received no response from the tightly curled up shape under the crumpled bedclothes. From the looks of things, House hadn't been the one to place those on Wilson either, the twisted sheets and cover that were wound so tightly around him giving away the panic that obviously ensued in House's absence, and completely undermining the open window and the fan that hummed uselessly from the corner of the dimly lit room.

Cameron couldn't help the lump that rose in her throat then, the vision before her sharply reminding her of nights she'd spent as a small child trying to hide from the dark, wrapped so tightly in her covers that she'd ended up sweating the night away in a stuffy make shift tomb that she could barely breathe in, her heart beat thumping in her head, resounding through her, burrowed so deeply within the bedding as she had been, her bedroom wall only inches from her face as she'd willed herself to fall asleep against the fear that had taken root deep inside her chest.

And yet, even then, she'd known that her fear was born simply of imaginings that had spawned from her nightmares. Even as a child, she'd known there wasn't actually anything lurking in the dark, creeping in the shadows, waiting to jump out and ambush her. She'd known that. It still didn't stop her being absolutely terrified. The only thing that stopped that was the light going back on, a measure she often resorted to when her fear of the dark overshadowed her fear of being a total baby.

But what if the creatures in the dark had been real? What if one had jumped out one night? What if her worst nightmare had come true, catching her at her most vulnerable, when she least expected it? What if it didn't go away, no matter how many lights she switched on?

Cameron was quite sure that in that scenario, under that level of terror, she'd be nothing more than a tightly curled up shape under the crumpled bedclothes, hiding and hiding in such a vulnerable, child-like manner, despite the non-existent protection those covers physically offered. They were no more actual use than putting your hands over your face, or shutting your eyes.

In fact, she was quite sure she'd look exactly as Wilson did right now.

And so it was that she found herself walking over to the window and gently shutting it for him, before making her way over to Wilson to kneel down next to him and lightly pull the covers back from his face.

He was asleep. Pale, sweaty, exhausted and frayed looking… but still, asleep.

It was with a sad smile that Cameron reached out to him then, softly placing the palm of her hand on his warm cheek and brushing her thumb across it, wiping away the sheen of mingled tears and sweat that glistened beneath his dark lashes. Wilson barely jumped, reluctantly expected as she was, stirring only to sleepily open his muggy eyes and wearily meet the concerned gaze of his junior colleague, as grateful to see her here as he was utterly humiliated.

It took some of the burden off House at least.

It was a thought he clung to above all else, the one thing he held on to through the haze, the one startlingly clear notion that ran through him as strongly as the fever did.

God, he felt like crap.

'Hey,' whispered Cameron, pushing the covers off his chest and reaching down to his limp hand to squeeze it in both of hers, feeling the burn of tears simmering behind her eyes and willing them away as Wilson blinked tiredly back at her, the small smile that he offered then barely reaching the chocolate pools of his eyes that were just so frozen in a turmoil of sadness.

'House told me what happened… Wilson, I… I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry.'

Wilson laughed faintly at that, a small, bitter, humorless chuckle that conveyed everything he could never put into words, a weak laugh that rapidly died off into a heavy sigh as he gazed resignedly back at Cameron, his voice barely more than an embarrassed mumble when he spoke.

'Life's a bitch, I guess.'

Well, that was one way of putting it.

'I guess it is,' said Cameron quietly, smiling sadly as she let go of his hand to get the meds out of her bag, knowing they were both putting on a brave face, both putting on their _work_ face, as she rooted, 'I'm hoping you'll feel a bit better by tomorrow after this lot though. I know House will.'

Wilson's heart lurched at that, hating that he was putting House through this, hating that it took so much fucking effort just to string a sentence together, his voice exhausted when he eventually managed it.

'Where is he?'

'Getting the saline ready,' replied Cameron distractedly as she got out everything she needed, purposely not looking at him, hoping Wilson would accept that half truth and not question any further into the reason for House's absence, employing a tactic they all used to placate patients where necessary.

She couldn't help feeling that she was patronizing him.

Wilson nodded vaguely, more to himself than anything, taking note of Cameron's diversion tactics and attempting to try and push himself up a bit, stopping after a few tries with the nauseating head spin even that small effort sent him into.

'Cyclizine?' offered Cameron, helpfully holding up the coveted syringe and needle she'd obviously been preparing while he'd been dutifully attempting to do the gentlemanly thing in not upchucking all over her.

'Please,' whispered Wilson appreciatively, giving up to tiredly lie back down again and close his eyes while she quickly injected his upper arm, praying that the drug would just do its job over the next twenty minutes or so in rendering him a little more lively than he was with the hopeful kick-assing of the nausea.

By the sounds of it, Cameron was getting the cannula kit out now and spreading it on the bed, the harsh orange glare of the ceiling light piercing his closed lids with the click of the light switch before she took his arm to prod around for a suitable vein, turning his hand over this way and that before seeming to settle on the site she wanted to insert the line.

'You okay if it goes in the back of your hand?'

Like he was going to say no.

He nodded, opening his eyes a few seconds later to casually observe the needle gauging smoothly into the back of his hand, the short, sharp pain a welcome distraction through the constant dull ache that plagued him, his weary gaze drifting to stare fixedly at an unaware Cameron as she focused wholly on getting the cannula in on the first attempt.

'House has been a long time getting the saline ready,' pointed out Wilson quietly, bringing the conversation back round to the Diagnostician once again and letting Cameron know in no uncertain terms that Wilson's thought process, as per usual, had never really left his best friend in the first place. She should never have been so stupid as to assume it had.

'He won't be long,' murmured Cameron, checking the inserted cannula and purposely focusing on it so as not to have to meet the probing gaze of her senior colleague that she could feel boring into her.

Wilson didn't say anything to that. He didn't have to – she could feel his unease emanating off him in waves less than a minute later as she fixed the dressing in place, everything from the preoccupied sigh, right down to the fidgeting and wriggling as he tried to get comfortable, saying everything.

Cameron sighed, finishing what she was doing quickly to sit back and finally meet the gaze of an anxious, and still nauseas, looking Wilson.

'Don't you think you've got enough to worry about here without worrying about House? He'll be fine. You, on the other hand, are the one who's sick and needs treatment.'

Wilson's face colored hotly at that, with a completely undeserved, faultless level of mortification that had previously been unknown to him, hot, stabbing shame that tore his eyes downwards to his lap as it coursed through him on a familiarly humiliating track that had been so viciously beaten into him over the past two weeks.

He'd never get used to this.

No matter how much time ticked past, no matter how many times he thought about it, felt it, experienced it all over again in his head, he knew he would never get used to being sick thanks to those pills. Pills that he had to take for one reason only. Pills that he took because he'd been raped.

_Raped._

It was a disassociating, horrifying term that would never sink in, always festering, digging, eating away at him, isolating him from his own life, his own body… but never, ever quite sinking in.

No… he'd never get used to this.

Just like he'd never gotten used to constantly worrying about, thinking about, that beloved, madman Diagnostician in the next room, factoring his needs into the equation long before his own, for years now, no matter what anyone said or did, no matter what he himself had drunkenly yelled at House that night, and so many other nights before that… And if House ended up not being to handle this, if he crumbled in any way, if he couldn't cope… well, Wilson knew what he could resort to. What he _would_ resort to. What he would turn to.

Pills solved everything these days. They both knew that.

Even those that rendered you an addicted wreck, admitted to a psychiatric in patient unit, barely a shadow of your former self.

Even those pills were so worth it, just for the tiny, tiny bit of relief they could bring you from the physical pain.

Pills that could be taken for the unrelenting pain in your ravaged right thigh, say.

God, the mere thought of it just broke Wilson, guilt crashing fiercely through him, stealing his breath away.

'Worry about yourself for a change,' pressed Cameron gently, the lump coming back into her throat with the shuddered breath Wilson took then, the biting of his lower lip doing nothing to stop it trembling as he shook his head, his eyes glistening with guilty tears as he looked to her.

'He'll-'

His voice broke, his throat constricting with the guilt that pulsed through him with every anxious beat of his heart, his words when he was eventually composed enough to speak thick with unshed tears.

'He'll hit the Vicodin.'

Cameron's heart went out to him.

'He'll hit the Vicodin and it'll be… God, it'll be because of _me_.'

He was devastated.

'No, Wilson-'

'He _will_,' insisted Wilson, his voice choked and breathless as he tried so hard to get across what he was saying, shivering and sweating and fuck knows what all at the same time as he sat there, baulking and aching and trying so hard not to cry like some pathetic idiot in front of his junior colleague, his head pounding with the effort to not vomit, to not give in, to not just _scream_ the loudest scream he'd ever screamed in his entire life, tearing himself to shattered, tortured pieces from the inside out.

'Wilson… please, just listen to me,' pleaded Cameron, clutching his warm hand tightly in hers, the rapidly intense descent their conversation had taken completely giving away how anxious Wilson had been about this all along, 'If there's one person in this world House would stay off the Vicodin for, it's you. He wouldn't go back on it whilst running the risk of making you feel even remotely guilty. If he ever goes back on it, it'll be through his own doing. No one else's. He wouldn't do that to you. Not now.'

Wilson could only shake his head at that, pulling his hand from Cameron's to cover his face as he crumbled, hands trembling with the pent up fear and anxiety that were only amplifying the debilitating side effects of the meds.

'He wouldn't hurt the one person who means the world to him, Wilson,' stated Cameron earnestly, keeping her voice low, 'he might not always show it, but you mean more to him than those pills ever will. None of this is your fault. He won't do anything to make you feel guilty in any way, least of all going back on the Vicodin. Deep down, you know he wouldn't. You _know_ that.'

Wilson slowly dropped his hands at that, bringing them into that distressed, almost prayer like position on his chest as he absently nudged his lips with his fingertips, worrying at them, fidgeting with his hands, in a gesture that Cameron realized was just so typical of a torn Wilson; his wondering, tear-filled gaze shining with self-blame as he stared hard at the door, undoubtedly willing the usual focus of his thoughts to come limping through it.

God, how he hoped she was right.

When he didn't say anything back to that, Cameron sighed, frustrated in knowing that no matter what she said he may never truly believe he could be at the center of someone else's world, least of all House's. Three failed marriages and numerous failed relationships lay as testimony to that, a history that had done nothing for his self esteem and had been consolidated so vilely with the rape that had seen the Oncologist so violently used and discarded in a matter of minutes. He would always blame himself if House ended up relapsing on the tail end of this, like he always did for other people's failures, despite the fact that all and sundry knew House would go without Vicodin if it meant disadvantaging his best friend in any way.

It was something he would do for Wilson, and Wilson only.

Because House sure as hell wouldn't put himself through that for anyone less than the person he loved most in this life, just as Wilson had allowed the disintegration of every meaningful personal relationship he'd ever had, until the unlabeled relationship he and House shared took rank above all others.

They'd each sacrificed so much to keep the other at their side.

And to Cameron, well… didn't that say everything?


	16. Always

Hi everyone!

I have no idea where all those reviews came from in

the last chapter, I'm blown away by your kindness!

Thank you all so much, you keep my muse for this

fic going, you're all stars! Enjoy :) xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>And I, will love you, baby… always.<em>

_I'll be there, forever and a day… always._

_I'll be there 'till the stars don't shine,_

'_Till the heavens burst and the words don't rhyme,_

_And I know when I die, you'll be on my mind,_

_And I'll love you, always.'_

{Bon Jovi: Always}

-[H]-

Wilson could barely feel his fingers as he fell gratefully through the doors of PPTH into the lobby, the harsh blizzard of stinging snow that had battered him on his way from his car to this drier, decidedly warmer point, having numbed up his extremities nicely.

Numbed them up enough for him to fail to keep a satisfactory grasp on his briefcase as it slipped from his cold fingers to fall to the floor with a resounding thwack, the damn thing bursting open in an almost comical manner and papers flying everywhere with the cold wind that fellow staff and visitors were bringing in behind him, fellow staff and visitors that just seemed to walk on regardless with not a second thought or glance for their unfortunate Head of Oncology.

Wilson was on his knees before he knew it, snatching at his hard work before it flew out of the open automatic door and into the back of beyond, muttering under his breath as he scrambled around the floor, movements clumsy with the numbing cold that seemed to have taken root at the very core of him now.

'Oh, _crap_… crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, _crap_-'

'Here, let me help you.'

Wilson should have felt grateful then. He should have felt relieved. He should have been looking up now with a genuinely appreciative smile and a word of thanks for five words that never failed to bring home the underlying, ever present, sometimes hidden but never failing, humanity of the human race.

What he felt instead was the clammy, horribly familiar sensation of vomit working its way into the back of his throat with the cold, hard fear that balled in the pit of stomach, that froze his heart painfully as he felt his chest constrict, the papers utterly forgotten about now as the voice that had completely destroyed his life in nine devastating minutes floated so casually, so normally, so _freely_, about his ears.

If he wasn't sure then that this stranger was his rapist, he sure as hell was when he managed to drag his frozen, now stricken gaze from the floor to meet the leering observation of the cold, grey eyes that had haunted him for so long, eyes that even now were still framed with that thick, black balaclava that hid what would surely be an equally leering smirk hidden beneath its knitted depths.

And still no one in the immediate vicinity batted an eyelid at this hooded man who was currently quite obviously threatening PPTH's Head of Oncology on the cold floor of the lobby.

This couldn't be happening.

'Leave me alone,' whispered Wilson in what he'd intended to be an intimidating tone of voice, but instead came out sounding utterly terrified, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably as his slowly ever more tear-filled gaze locked onto the face of his worst nightmare.

He couldn't move for fear.

He couldn't tear his eyes away.

'Hmm… your shaking,' noted the masked attacker, Wilson's plea completely disregarded as he reached out to ever so gently brush his fingers down Wilson's coated arm, the skin beneath crawling nauseatingly in their violating wake.

It was going to happen. He could feel it.

He was going to lose everything all over again.

'Please, just.. just leave me alone,' breathed Wilson shakily, humiliated and sweating clammily now despite the cold that had engulfed him, knowing quite well he was about to vomit everywhere, knowing quite well that his legs might just give way if he tried to stand.

He couldn't stop trembling.

His rapist only chuckled softly under his breath, giving Wilson a disconcerting moment of reprieve before he suddenly snatched a hand out to painfully grip the Oncologist's upper arm, yanking him close enough to brush his cloaked lips over the Oncologist's bare cheek; the startled, and obviously terrified, cry that escaped Wilson then, that echoed horribly around the lobby, failing to pique the attention of any passersby.

How could they be so oblivious?

How could they just.. just_.. ignore_ what was going on before them?

How could they be so blind?

'I could rape you again, right here, right _now_, and they wouldn't care,' hissed his rapist hotly into his ear, 'They wouldn't stop to help you. Why the fuck would they stop to help _you_, James?'

Why would they?

They hadn't so far.

He was right.

Of course he was right.

'Get your hands off of me,' muttered Wilson thickly, struggling now, that vice like grip keeping him rooted to the spot no matter how hard he tried to pull away, the panic rising rapidly within him as that dreadful sentence engulfed him, coating him, sinking into him, wrapping around him so tightly that he could feel his breathing quickening, constricting… _buckling_… the closing of his eyes making none of it go away as he tried to battle uselessly against the tears he could feel trickling down his cheeks, and God he was so fucking _weak_-

'There's only one person who would stop for you.'

Wilson's blood ran cold at that murmured threat.

'There's only one person who would _care _for you…'

No.

'Who _loves_ you…'

Please, no…

'Who would _trade _for you_…'_

_No._

'Who would… die for you?'

'No. _No!_'

_Not him._

Wilson found himself launching forwards before he knew it, screaming and tearing and battering any part of this horrible, horrible man he could get his hands on, fighting back so hard, so fearfully, that he could barely see for the tears that ran freely now, sobbing as he fought so fucking hard to keep this sick bastard away from the one aspect of his life that he just couldn't bare to lose; the one man he couldn't, _wouldn't_, have this agony inflicted upon in any way, his blows merciless as he lashed out against this.. _this-_

'Wilson?'

_House. _

'Wilson!'

God he was here, he'd stopped, just like he knew he would, for _him_, stupid, _stupid_ man-

'For fuck's sake, _Wilson!'_

The knife – _he didn't know about the knife-_

'_Wilson!'_

_He was going to kill him-_

'Wilson! _Wake up!'_

What?

'WAKE UP!'

His hands were wrapped around his wrists.

'_Stop it!'_

He couldn't get them off, _he couldn't get them off_-

'Wilson, it's me! It's _me!_ WAKE THE_ FUCK_ UP!'

Wilson did then, his wild eyes snapping open to the bewildering vision and sensation of House breathlessly straddling him, his unshaven face just visible through the stilled darkness of House's bedroom only because it was inches from Wilson's, the wide-eyed Diagnostician evidently having pinned the struggling, panting Oncologist to the bed by the wrists in an effort to restrain his thrashing friend as he'd lashed out again and again in his sleep, both hearts racing, Wilson's throat raw and the tears still streaming down his cheeks into the pillow as he stared helplessly up into dimmed but familiar blue eyes that delved into the very depths of him, pulling him back… bringing him home.

'It's _me_,' insisted House again from above him, his voice much less frantic now, the warm breath of those two softly sighed words wafting gently over Wilson's face as he breathlessly lay there beneath him, arms still anchored above his head and completely stilled now save the heaving of his chest as he slowly calmed down, tear-filled eyes still locked on to House, terrified and confused in the faintly yellow light of the street lamps outside.

'You're alright. It was a nightmare. Just a stupid, pointless nightmare. It's okay.'

It's okay?

It's _okay_?

'But he wanted you,' whispered Wilson numbly after a few seconds of stunned silence, like that on its own was explanation enough, shit-scared and beginning to lose himself all over again, his very real fear of an event that had occurred only in his head tumbling quickly into a strange kind of indignant, insulted anger with the sheer force of it, 'He had the knife and he- and you- _you!_ _You wouldn't go away!_'

It wasn't just a stupid, pointless nightmare.

It was his worst nightmare.

And for that moment, it had seemed like a truly frightening reality.

House's gaze softened, the grip he had on a wrought Wilson's wrists lessening as he realized just why his tormented friend had been fighting back so hard.

He was fighting for him.

Fighting for him, because he wouldn't go away and leave Wilson to the mercy of the bastard who'd done this in the first place.

_Idiot._

'Damn right I wouldn't go away,' replied House calmly, thoroughly approving of his dream-self's determination to see Wilson safe as he stared hard at his best friend he had pinned beneath him, the feel of Wilson's racing pulse beating beneath his hands, the sound of him breathing so rapidly, so precious a sensation given the fact he could so easily have been lost that night that he wasn't sure he could let go.

'I gave you my word, on the _worst_ night of my life, of _your_ life, that I would keep you safe. I promised you I wouldn't let him hurt you again. That's a promise I won't break, Wilson. Not for anything. So forgive me for being hell-bent on saving your ass, dream-state or otherwise. I save it for purely selfish reasons, I assure you.'

Even as he'd said that, House couldn't keep the pain of that night, of finding the person his world revolved around so defenseless, lying so vulnerably on the floor, from splicing harshly through his words. They both knew what he was actually saying here, the reason for him protecting and caring for Wilson so relentlessly, so exhaustedly, disguised in plain view beneath the barely there front of the usual sarcasm and self-preservation that defined the Diagnostician's hard exterior.

Equally, they both fully understood that that very same reason was exactly why Wilson was so scared of his attacker coming back… he could attack him again, yes. The very thought of it brought the fear of God into him. Into both of them. But what was just impossible for Wilson to even comprehend, let alone fucking dream about, was if he targeted House in some way. That wasn't a possibility. That couldn't _be_ a possibility, in any way, shape or form.

Put simply, both men were under no illusion that one could not be without the other. They'd always known it, they'd always silently taken it for granted that they, House and Wilson, Wilson and House, would always be. It was just the way it was, their way of life, the order of the things. They were the most important person in each other's lives, they had been since House had bailed Wilson out all those years ago. That would never change, no matter what.

And yet it was only now, in this very moment, more than any point during that that awful night even, that they found themselves fully coming to terms with that, neither saying anything for a moment as they stared unblinkingly into the confused, meaningful, and slightly daring depths of the other man's eyes; that whisper of a challenge, of the unknown, that unspoken threat of once of them voicing any of these thoughts hanging between them like a physical presence, pressing and pressing through the night's shadows until Wilson, predictably, could take it no more. The Oncologist eventually broke tearful eye contact with House to blink and quickly glance around him as much as House's weight on top of him allowed him to, eyes sweeping fleetingly over the silhouetted meds and supplies on the floor next to him, mind registering the slight pull of the drip in the back of his hand, before looking up to his friend again, his voice so small, yet so determined, when he spoke.

'Where's Cameron?'

'She left once you'd conked out,' replied House simply, holding Wilson's preoccupied stare as he appeared to acknowledge that before quickly moving on to his next question.

'Where's my cell?'

House swallowed, gazing down with a slight frown into those glistening eyes for a second longer before releasing Wilson's hands to shuffle awkwardly off of him and reach over to the bedside table, switching the lamp on and retrieving one of the two phones that he'd put there together earlier before handing it to Wilson, vibrantly blue eyes going that little bit wider when the younger Doctor dialed three numbers only before shakily holding the phone to his ear, his hand trembling.

'Police, please.'

House couldn't help the swell of pride that rose within him then for his best friend, sighing with long awaited relief as he pushed himself off the bed a moment later to limp painfully around it and take possession of Wilson's other hand, with no resistance at all from the younger man, gently turning it over to inspect any damage to the line that was inserted in the back of it as Wilson hesitantly talked. He wasn't really all that surprised to find it all still intact, the drip still running smoothly like the hand it was attached to hadn't just been flung all over the place, ragging the line with it. Cameron, luckily, had secured it well in place, and House couldn't suppress the surge of appreciation for his ex-fellow's thorough as ever approach to anything she set her mind to.

She'd certainly been nothing less than thorough when it had come to sorting Wilson and himself out earlier on, a fact that Wilson seemed to be very acutely aware of despite saying nothing to House about it.

Good thing she had been really, given that he, Gregory House bloody MD, had suddenly found himself buckling with the appearance of a colleague and friend who could actually do something to help him help Wilson. He hadn't expected to suddenly find himself welling up right in front of Cameron, it seemed to have come from nowhere, but Christ… to have someone just appear at the door, someone he could trust entirely with his best friend, well… it had been more than a relief to be able to just take a breather for half an hour, to say the least.

Wilson had asked for Midazolam himself in the end, undoubtedly thanks to working himself up into a frenzy in House's absence. Fuck knows how far they'd discussed the attack, or if they'd even discussed it at all, but in the half hour he'd been absent Wilson seemed to have withdrawn into himself again when House had limped back in to the room with the fluids in hand, dozing off willingly. Cameron had looked as lost as they all felt as she'd looked up to House, eyes huge and shining with that ever present anxiety, the emptied needle and syringe still clutched tellingly in her hand as she'd sat there, helpless, pale, exhausted and, quite honestly, shocked.

A bit like Wilson was at the moment actually, the younger man clearly on the verge of tears if the jittery panic that ran anew through his suddenly choked voice was anything to go by.

'Oh, God, I.. I don't know, I'm sorry, I can't.. I can't remember. It was about 10pm, but I.. I can't remember the date, I'm sorry-'

'Give it here,' interrupted House softly, sitting on the bed next to him and gently taking the phone from a visibly relieved Wilson to speak to the cops himself, his hand never leaving Wilson's as he squeezed it, reassuringly holding his overwhelmed gaze as he spoke with his usual matter of fact sarcasm to the woman on the other end of the line, eyes dancing with that usual mischievous twinkle as he prepared to well and truly slaughter her if need be for the purpose of Wilson's entertainment only.

'Yes, I'm his friend and attending Doctor. Gregory House. It was two weeks ago today it happened. I don't know, I've had better things to worry about than the damn date. Have you got a calendar in front of you? Well, will you do me a favor and use it?'

Wilson breathed a shaken sigh of both complete relief as he was absolved of any duty, for just that few minutes, to delve further into those truly dark memories and absolute fear for the now inevitable reliving of the most devastating nine minutes he'd ever endured, an account that would have to come tomorrow undoubtedly, closing his eyes and resting his head back to let House's side of the conversation wash over him, wishing wholeheartedly for another shot of the Midazolam he knew was sat in the bag less that a meter away as he tried to breathe slowly past the expected hammering of his heart in his chest.

He couldn't go back from this now.

Just like he couldn't have not done it either.

How stupidly, ridiculously confusing that was.

And the only thing here that was stopping him from screaming until his raw throat bled, or shouting until God stopped and damn well listened for once, or sobbing until he was deplete of every feeling he'd ever had, or just ripping this fucking line so angrily from the back of his hand to lash it anywhere it landed, was the feeling of his hand clutched so tightly in House's, the Diagnostician's thumb doing its usual in ever so gently rubbing back and forth across Wilson's tensed knuckles, silently imploring him to just stay right where he was and _breathe_.

Just for now, just while he was on the phone, just… breathe.

And yes, House's touch may have been delicate, but it was immediately clear that that tenderness was reserved for James Wilson and James Wilson only, since it was at complete loggerheads with the impatient annoyance that ran through the length of his growled voice, that snarky tone that he employed when dealing with any hapless idiots that wandered unknowingly across his path in full force now.

'Listen, the facts are this. My friend was raped, I acted as his attending to do the examination that same night, and the samples from that examination were dropped off the next day by our boss. Doctor Lisa Cuddy. Of PPTH. _Yes, _the hospital – where the hell else did you think I meant?'

Wilson was barely listening as he lay there in the stuffy, looming darkness of his own pounding head. He knew he was becoming increasingly reliant on his best friend to keep him anchored, and that knowledge only served to add to his worries as he automatically found himself physically calming somewhat with House's continued tactile plea, as House had known he would, his knuckles tingling faintly with the back and forth motion of best friend's thumb.

It baffled Wilson.

Completely and utterly baffled him.

Where would they be in a week? A month? Because _this_ wasn't them. It was a thought that continually plagued him, knowing that he and House had never been the touchy-feely types, knowing that he and House had become exactly that over the past couple of weeks, the ease with which they'd made that transition both terrifying him and soothing him in a way that nothing else could.

House had been his rock since that night, doing anything and everything to ensure that Wilson was as ok as he could be. So much so, in fact, that Wilson knew he couldn't go back to the way they had been. He didn't want to. He needed something in his life to keep him physically rooted, something tangible to hold onto when his world insisted on crumbling at every turn, turning his life into one giant mind game and, well… that something had taken the six foot, limping, cane-wielding form of one Gregory House.

But what did House make of it all?

What would he say if he had any inkling of the thoughts that ran through Wilson's head constantly?

It was the question that scared Wilson most of all, the answer of which he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He was in a free fall of conflicting, numbing emotions, and it was just… God, it was just exhausting. He just wanted it to _stop_. He needed to find the off button and keep it pressed until he switched off from his life and let it re-boot itself.

Life shouldn't _be_ this complicated.

And yet it was.

It _was_.

The terse sound of verbal abuse ringing irately through the room snapped Wilson swiftly back to the confusing present.

'Have you not listened to a word I've said? Christ almighty, I'd put Wilson back on the phone but he's more used to dealing with the terminally ill, not the terminally _stupid_.'

'_House_,' warned Wilson softly, out of complete habit, opening his eyes and, despite everything, finding himself unable to help the stab of sympathy for the poor woman on the other end, knowing quite well she was just doing her job, and knowing full well that her intelligence was, in all likelihood, quite average.

It was just too bad that 'average' and 'House' really didn't get along well.

They didn't get along well at all, especially when the issue at hand concerned Wilson.

House smiled at him then, a fleeting smile of genuine affection for that so normal sounding reprimand, a smile that morphed quickly into his trademark smirk as he half listened to the woman on the other end, rolling his eyes and releasing Wilson's hand as the Oncologist slowly moved himself to get out of the bed, presumably to use the bathroom.

'Thank you,' declared House finally, hanging up and lobbing Wilson's phone on the bed before quickly getting up to grab the bag of fluids that had nearly fully run through, the bag of fluids that Wilson had momentarily forgotten about and almost succeeding in pulling out the back of his hand as he'd taken an unsteady step forwards.

'They're coming at four tomorrow afternoon,' said House tentatively, reaching around Wilson's waist with his free hand to stop him from wobbling all over the place as he guided him towards the door, 'Gives you enough time to have a lie in in the morning, I suppose.'

Wilson nodded, bringing them both to a standstill in the doorway of the bedroom, uncertainty lacing the dreading depths of his destitute gaze when he turned in House's arms to face him then.

'You will.. you will be there, won't you?'

_Because I can't do this without you._

Wilson didn't need to say it, it was written all over his face, his coloring cheeks giving away how pathetically humiliated he felt at even feeling the need to utter that shamefully pleading sentence, immediately breaking eye contact with House to stare hotly down to the floor. He couldn't have come this far without House, and he certainly couldn't handle tomorrow if the man who now represented everything safe in Wilson's life was absent in any way.

That still didn't make it any less embarrassing.

Wilson couldn't help flinching when he felt his friend's fingertips at his chin then, startled when House gently brought his gaze back up to captivate him once more in the shimmering intensity of those bright blue eyes, the strength that that one gesture wielded rendering Wilson motionless as he stared, his mouth suddenly dry with the beating of his heart as it pounded through him, shaken breaths halted with the lump in his throat that was suddenly lodged there.

The vow that House made to him then was spoken with such a quiet, steadfast conviction that none of them could have any doubt whatsoever as to whom his allegiances lay with.

It was a promise uttered with such blatant truth that they couldn't doubt for a second who he'd committed himself to, now and for the past God knows how many years.

It was a single word that defined a moment of such unwitting intimacy that Wilson, finally, for the first time in almost two weeks, felt something, actually _felt_ something, piercing warmly thorough the pressing numbness that, conversely, was just so, so painful.

That one word?

'Always.'


	17. I Believe Without A Doubt In You

Hi everyone!

Firstly, thank you all so much for the lovely reviews

you're leaving, they're just fab! Also, as you may

have guessed with the song choice for this chapter,

i was lucky enough to see Robbie Williams so you

can thank him for the tone of this update! I just

thought this song was perfect though :) xxx

* * *

><p>'<em>Close your eyes so you don't fear them… they don't need to see you cry.<em>

_I can't promise I will heal you… but if you want to, I will try._

_I'll sing this somber serenade, the past is done, we've been betrayed… it's true._

_Someone said the truth will out… I believe without a doubt in you.'_

{Robbie Williams: Eternity}

-[H]-

'Wilson, if you fall on your ass we've both had it. There's a time for independence and gaining strength and all that getting back to normal crap, but I'm afraid now, as in two hours before the Cops are due, is not it.'

Wilson said nothing, hanging his head dejectedly as he held tightly on to the edge of the sink, breathlessly propping himself up against it as he willed his legs to stop shaking, his teeth gritted with the stubborn effort to remain upright.

The razor was sitting uselessly by the plug hole, flung there in tired frustration less than tens seconds ago.

'Look,' said House gently from behind him, leaning heavily on the wall and staring at the top of Wilson's damp, disheveled head in the mirror, 'You've gotten some sleep in overnight, the fever's broken and we've got the nausea mostly under control. But you're still weak, you're still _sick_. You know you are. I had to practically carry you in here last night and before. Plus you've needed me to help you get washed and dressed, and whilst I might not make a regular habit of shaving, I _do_ know how to do it. The bottom line is I know that your usual look isn't this wild come homeless thing you've got going on, and if you think I'm letting you loose in front of the Cops looking like something a cat threw up then you've got another thing coming.'

Wilson said nothing, his only response being the closing of his eyes as he felt the usual gripe of embarrassment twist through his gut. Did House not think he was already well aware of the fact that he could barely do a thing for himself? That the anti-viral meds had done their job just _wonderfully_, rendering him barely able to walk in the process of recovering from very little natural sleep, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, a fever and mere morsels of food at best?

Did House think he was proud of the fact that he was relying on a man who could barely walk without a cane himself?

He detested himself, and they both knew it.

'Just let me do this and then I'll leave you alone,' sighed House, 'I promise.'

Still nothing.

House rolled his eyes. Humor it was then.

'Look, if you don't let me do this, I'm telling you now – I'll get your hair drier and balls your hair right up. The choice is yours, Jimmy boy.'

Wilson looked up then to tiredly meet House's gaze in the mirror, all the more aware now of the rugged at best look he'd adopted over the past couple of weeks thanks to a complete lack of shaving.

Not quite wild, or homeless, but he was at least as hairy as House.

And he just looked ridiculous stood there with shaving foam all over his face, shaving foam that was going nowhere without House's help.

He sighed, frustrated.

'I fucking _hate_ these meds.'

House smirked, knowing Wilson, at the heart of him, didn't mean a word of that, knowing how eternally grateful both of them were that those meds existed at all. He'd added in a regular anti-emetic to Wilson's meds now, hoping it would keep at least some of the nausea at bay, if not all of it. Add a sleeping pill into the mix, and more fluids if needed, and House was hopeful that a few days from now would see a fed, watered and rested Wilson looking and feeling more like his old self.

Whether that idealistic scenario would actually play out, House wasn't so sure.

In fact, as is well known by every wise man, life just isn't that straightforward, exhibit A being the unshaven Oncologist House was observing before him now.

'Too bad your Attending's making you stay on them then, isn't it? He must be one sadistic son of a bitch.'

'You could say that,' grumbled Wilson, giving in to just flop down on the side of the bath and take a deep breath before raising his head to resignedly present his left cheek to House.

'Go on then. Shave me.'

House couldn't help shaking his head as he stepped forward to take the razor from the sink, smiling to himself as he dutifully sat down next to Wilson and placed his fingertips at the side of his head, using his left thumb to pull the skin of his cheek taut before he got to work, murmuring to Wilson as he concentrated.

'I can't believe it took me threatening the wellbeing of your precious locks to make you agree to this.'

'I still can't believe I've _agreed_ to this,' shot back Wilson softly as he stared at the wall, his weary eyes finally twinkling somewhat with both resigned gratitude and amusement, 'I swear to all that's holy, if you go _near_ my eyebrows-'

'You'll what?' snorted House, leaning past Wilson to rinse the razor before getting back to the job in hand, 'File half way through my cane while I'm asleep? Kidnap my guitar? Put my hand in warm water while I'm sleeping so I piss myself like a little girl? Oh wait, hang on, that was _you._'

Wilson couldn't help smiling sadly with the memory of that one, surprised at the strength of the mournful pang that tore through him so fiercely for their lives back then.

Frustrating, unpredictable and unbearably lonely as it had been so mundanely normal, boring and comfortingly _them_…

Life in all its anti-climaxing glory, a blur of days so similar that they just merged into the next, years that flew by with a crappy routine of hookers, pain, Vicodin, risk-taking, adultery, failed marriages, lecturing and health-watching that both of them barely wavered from…

God, he missed it.

He missed it so much.

House, as per usual, guessed exactly what his best friend was thinking at that point, dropping the razor and stilling long enough to cause Wilson to eventually turn to him, overwhelmed brown eyes shining with something so much worse than sadness.

'It won't be like this forever,' offered House quietly, his chest tightening with the flash of cautious hope that crossed Wilson's face for a split second before disappearing as quickly as it had come, 'It feels like it'll never end, but it will. I promise you, it will.'

Wilson nodded uncertainly, those dark eyes flooding and spilling over all at once as he stared desperately at House, praying so, so hard that his best friend was right.

He couldn't speak, the only sound that escaped him a strangled sob as he caved in on himself.

He was shitting himself about speaking to the Cops, and they both knew it.

They'd always known it.

'Hey, come on,' whispered House, shuffling closer along the hard bath tub edge to automatically fold Wilson to him, arms wrapped tightly around the younger man as he crumpled willingly against his chest, the shaving foam that remained now smeared all over House's neck and shoulder, 'Don't cry. Please, don't cry.'

House was rocking him, so gently that he barely noticed he was doing it, the sound of Wilson crying so horribly familiar and yet so gut wrenchingly _wrong_ that House didn't know what to feel.

Betrayed.

Blind-sided.

Distraught.

All of them boiled down to the same thing – the man he held so close now didn't deserve this. Life was shitty enough at the best of times, but to have it turn around and do this to his best friend…

It was a betrayal of the highest order, one that had caught them completely unawares and spat them out the other side in a heap of complete despair.

It was a betrayal that neither of them would ever get used to, no matter how many times House analyzed it obsessively from every angle, no matter how many times Wilson tried to do the exact opposite in avoiding any remote thought of that appalling night or its aftermath and failing quite spectacularly with every helpless attempt.

It plagued the Oncologist with every waking breath, despite the fact that he'd barely spoken a word about it since he'd drank himself into oblivion the night after he was raped, and even then that was hardly anything. Even with House's sparse attempts to wheedle anything out of his best friend, Wilson had still remained tight lipped on the actual events of that soul-destroying night, bottling everything up until it caught up with him and unexpectedly burst out of him at moments like this. Moments that were becoming more and more frequent.

And House knew, in less than two hour's time, that he'd be hearing everything. All those missing puzzle pieces that he hadn't pieced together yet for himself, all those seemingly insignificant, yet vital links that joined each vicious blow to the next, taking Wilson from innocently answering his front door to House finding him in a bloodied, discarded heap behind it later on… he'd be hearing everything. In excruciating detail, as equally excruciating, endless questions were finally answered.

Whether Wilson was ready for that, whether he'd ever be ready for that, he just didn't know.

'Tell me what happened, Wilson,' requested House softly, pressing his lips hard into Wilson's freshly washed hair as he squeezed him, 'Before the Cops get here, tell me what happened. I know I can't make it all better, or make it all go away, but I can try. I promise you, I'll try.'

It took a few moments, but he eventually felt Wilson nod into the crook of his neck, the Oncologist tightening the hold he had on House as he tried to stifle the sobs that he just couldn't keep down.

House said no more as he waited patiently, feeling sick with the knowledge that he was about to hear Wilson's account of the unspeakable violation he'd suffered through, staring resolutely at a spot on the wall as he felt Wilson slowly relax into him over the next few minutes, his breathing slowly evening out as they sat there together.

House didn't protest in the slightest when Wilson suddenly reached up to take his left hand and pull it down into his lap, clasping it tightly between both of his as he tried to find it in him to begin somewhere, completely mortified and terrified in equal measure of the consequences this could have.

It wasn't his fault. House had already said, he already knew…

_It wasn't his fault._

He sighed shakily.

'He knocked three times.'

House jumped a little at the sudden break in silence, despite the fact that Wilson's shattered voice was barely there, doing not much more than cradling the Oncologist now as he leant against House, exhausted.

'I thought it was the Police, or.. or a neighbor, complaining about you,' revealed Wilson thickly, shaking his head with the utter disbelief at what had been waiting for him on the other side, House's hand a welcome plaything as he messed with it in an almost childlike manner, unable to bring himself to look up to his friend.

He'd died a little more inside at every glancing thought of his rapist, of those eyes, of those hands, of that breath, that voice, and this… well, this was just killing him.

His heart was pounding, his anxiety and panic spilling over into his stricken voice.

'I shouldn't have opened that door, House. I should've just.. just _waited _for you, or gone to bed, or.. or _something_. 'Cause when I did he… he had a balaclava and these horrible grey eyes and I _knew,_ House, I _knew_ it would be bad, and I couldn't shut it again, 'cause he was _there_, he was _in_, and.. God, he just.. just _shoved _his knee into my face and I.. I couldn't.. I couldn't stop him.'

He swallowed, breathless.

'_I couldn't stop him._'

That last sentence was admitted with such humiliated defeat that House had to take a deep breath in a vague attempt to calm down, white hot anger searing through him for this masked bastard. He was gritting his teeth, he could feel it, his blood pressure rising as quickly as the possessive fury that swirled within his gut tore through him.

He could kill the scum who'd done this to the man whose continued wellbeing, whose _life,_ House cherished more than his own.

Because whilst House wouldn't wish something like this on anyone, least of all anybody he knew, he couldn't deny that he'd see any one of them suffer before he did Wilson. Without a shadow of a doubt.

James Wilson was off limits.

It was as simple as that.

And that appeared to be a fact that Wilson's rapist had yet to learn.

-[H]-

Two hours later and the questions, as predicted earlier, were endless.

Excruciatingly, torturously… endless.

This was so much worse than they'd thought it would be.

That was all House could dazedly think as he sat quietly on the couch right next to Wilson, his horrified stare frozen on a random spot on the floor a meter or so away, the slight ache of his elbows digging insistently into the tops of his thighs as he rested his chin atop his clasped hands an ongoing, necessary ache that utterly failed to distract him from his best friend.

Nothing was going to succeed in distracting him from his best friend.

Because Wilson was trembling as he accounted everything, yet again, from that night, in the obligatory painstaking detail, for the middle-aged, male Cop sat opposite them. He was trembling so hard. House could feel it through their knees that, as per usual, were resting against each other, despite the surprising outward calmness with which he described the life altering events of that night.

Yes, to look at Wilson now – bathed, clean-shaven (eventually), dressed in the usual clean sweatpants and t-shirt – he looked almost normal. To any oblivious onlooker who didn't know, who couldn't hear the unspeakable atrocities coming out of Wilson's mouth, who couldn't hear the absolute despair that wavered through his voice, who couldn't see the hopelessness that drowned the chocolate whorls of those disbelieving eyes, you'd think the pair of them were reporting a scratch that some mindless idiot had decided to key into the younger Doctor's car.

To those wonderfully naïve, happily unknowing onlookers, it was a given that they couldn't imagine the night and day, the past two weeks, that House and Wilson had just suffered through to get them to this point now. This Cop even, understanding, sympathetic and as admittedly good as he was, had no idea what they'd gone through. Because to House, and Wilson too he imagined, it was quite clear that neither he, nor the person in his life who mattered most to him, had been battered into brutal oblivion in their own home before being so violently raped under the very real threat of being murdered right there and then.

He'd quite obviously never found his best friend in the state House had found Wilson in two short weeks ago.

He had no idea of the near impossibility that was the two Doctor's moving on from that surreal event to live a relatively normal life again.

He couldn't know what it was to literally have to drag your best friend back to the land of the living and attempt to keep him there when he so obviously, so heartbreakingly, didn't want to be.

And, Jesus, it was a blessing that he didn't know. No one should have to go through this. This Cop was doing his job, just as he should be and needed to. This Cop was probably looking at the pair of them now, noting the dark rings of exhaustion that clouded their eyes for example, and guessing that neither of the Doctor's had had a restful night's sleep.

And whilst that assumption would be spot on, House couldn't help but feel irritated at how insignificant a fleeting thought that would be to the Cop. Just a casual observation that would be entirely expected, and yet mean nothing to him. Because whilst that Cop surely knew that lack of sleep wasn't an unusual behavior for victims of crimes so heinous, whilst he knew the theory behind it, he obviously didn't _know_.

Had he ever known what it was to give up on sleeping himself because his still fevered best friend couldn't? Because every time his best friend did drift off next to him, he screamed himself awake mere minutes later, crying and sweating and shaking and screaming so desperately, screaming for help, screaming for mercy… screaming for him?

Had he ever known what it was to have to give in to his best friend's pleas to inject them with an anti-anxiety drug, knowing all the while that it would do him no good in the long term, that it was a hollow escape, knowing all the while that he loved that best friend far, far too much to deny him anything he wanted?

Had he ever known what it was to hook his best friend up to fluids and IV Tylenol, watching them run slowly through as the hours passed by, swapping the bags when they were finished, praying that they'd be enough to get the shattered man on the receiving end of them at least feeling able to eat something again with the hopeful breaking of the fever?

Had he ever known what it was to truly be his best friend's crutch, his willing anchor under circumstances so acutely devastating that it became so much more than just supporting him?

Because House had come to realize that he was playing God in his best friend's life.

He was playing God, picking up the responsibility for the continuation of Wilson's life when the Oncologist had so willingly given up at 10:11pm on the night that had so totally destroyed him, taking on a role so hugely significant that House knew he had become so much more than Wilson's safety blanket.

He'd become everything to the younger man sat next to him now.

Everything.

And whilst the thought of it scared him senseless, House knew that he wouldn't have it any other way.

He couldn't have it any other way.

And so it was that endless questions continued, each one so necessarily invasive despite the sensitive spin expertly put upon them by the Cop.

And Wilson was still trembling next to him.

House waited until the Cop stopped to look for another pen before he bumped shoulders lightly with Wilson, taking the now numb Oncologist by slight surprise despite being sat only inches away, his voice barely more than a whisper when he spoke.

'You alright?'

Wilson nodded quickly and looked away again, obviously far from 'alright' and blushing furiously with humiliation at the sickening details of those nine minutes that he'd just divulged to the other two men in the room, from answering the front door that night at 10:02pm to finding himself falling unconscious amidst his own blood and stomach contents and God knows what at 10:11pm.

And even though House had heard it before, he was still just so ashamed. Completely and utterly, unimaginably… ashamed.

'Hey.'

_I know I can't make it all better, or make it all go away, but I can try. I promise you, I'll try._

Wilson bit his lip, feeling suddenly choked with the recent memory of that uttered pledge. He waited a second before turning to House again, meeting the heartening gaze of those blue eyes he knew so well for a moment before following the Diagnostician in looking down to their adjacent thighs.

His hand lay there between them, open wide and palm facing upwards, clearly willing Wilson to take it if he so wished.

Even if he just wanted to use it as a plaything.

The small sigh that escaped him then was one of such completely unexpected relief that it brought tears to his eyes.

'You're alright,' promised House softly, his chest tightening when he felt Wilson's fingers interlocking tightly with his own, the Oncologist's hand clammy with nerves as he turned back to the Police Officer, clinging to the life line he now had clutched once more in his left hand.

He would be alright.

In the end, he would be alright.

It was a mantra that he ran through over and over again in his head for the rest of the interview, never once letting go of House.

And it was a mantra that would surely become a reality in the end.

Because House was going to make damn sure of it.


End file.
